


light to fight the shadows

by DoctorSyntax



Series: our version of events [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-25 14:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30090315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorSyntax/pseuds/DoctorSyntax
Summary: When an urgent need for safety accidentally brings Hermione and Harry very far off the beaten path and forces their horcrux hunt to a screeching halt, she and Viktor must decide whether they’re going to waste or embrace some unexpected holiday magic.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum
Series: our version of events [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2214030
Comments: 35
Kudos: 32





	1. Prologue: 1 August 1997

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I’m not posting the entire story at once. It takes place over the course of a week, with each chapter a different day (plus a prologue + epilogue) so I thought it would be fun to experience the story ‘real-time’ as the characters do.
> 
> The rating is for the overall story and does not necessarily apply to every chapter.
> 
> Title is from "Read All About It (pt III)" by Emeli Sandé.

Seated with Harry, Hermione watches Viktor storm out of the wedding marquee with a single-minded intensity that takes her aback. Her eyes don’t leave his angry, retreating form but she hears herself say—as if from a far distance—“Harry, I’ll be right back.”

“Wait.” Harry’s tone brokers no argument. She glances at him in confusion, but he’s not looking at her, instead concentrating on something in the distance. “Okay. Go now, while Ron’s back is turned.”

She can’t see Ron, but Harry must have a clear line of sight to him. “Thanks.” She slips as discreetly as she can out of the marquee, hurrying to catch up with Viktor. To avoid drawing attention to them both, she doesn’t call his name, but instead puts her hand on his shoulder.

He rounds on her, looking furious, but his expression relaxes as soon as he recognizes her. It’s not fast enough to stop her from taking a step back in alarm, though—a fact that is not lost on him.

“My apologies,” he says. “I thought…” But he doesn’t say what he thought, instead shaking his head to banish the rest of the sentence. “Did you have a need?” he asks, politely.

“Just to see you,” Hermione answers, trying to keep her voice light. She rests her hand in the crook of his elbow and tugs gently. “Come on, let’s walk for a bit. We haven’t seen each other in ages.”

As she says it, memories of their last in-person meeting flash over her. A bittersweet goodbye kiss at the door, and… everything… that came before. Her cheeks heat a little, but her words don’t have the same effect on Viktor. He seems to stiffen, putting another half-step of space between them, though he doesn’t go quite so far as to force her to drop his arm.

“Will not be good company,” he mumbles after a moment of silence.

“Why is that?” Hermione asks. She’s not naive enough to believe that it has entirely to do with her. She leads them down the gradually sloping lawn, over to the shade of an old oak tree overlooking the lake. Sitting in its shade, they’re relatively obscured from the rest of the party.

Viktor has allowed her to lead their every move, but hasn’t answered yet. “Viktor?” she asks, looking over at him as he settles himself beside her. “I saw you arguing with Mr. Lovegood. Do you know him?”

“We met tonight,” Viktor spits. “I do not wish to know him further.”

It doesn’t make sense. Viktor had been furious, she had seen as much, but Mr. Lovegood had seemed more bewildered than anything.

“To wear such a symbol at such an occasion,” Viktor continues, with real anger. “It is worse than rude. It is an insult.”

“I didn’t see what he was wearing,” Hermione says carefully, though she remembers sunshine-yellow robes and a gold necklace with a pendant.

Viktor gestures toward his neck. “The sign of Grindlewald.”

Hermione blinks in shock. “That can’t be right.”

“Yes, Potter said that also. I know what I saw.”

Hermione sits up straighter, then glances around and leans in, lowering her voice to a hush. “What do you mean, Harry said that?”

Viktor makes an impatient gesture. “Just now, at table.”

“Viktor,” Hermione says slowly, heart threatening to beat out of her chest, “Harry’s not here.”

“Stop!” he huffs, before lowing his voice back to match hers. “I am not stupid, you know. Weasley cousin Barny was never mentioned in your letters, but you brushed his hair away from his eyes like you did for Potter at the tournament. You told me once Weasleys are like his family, that you all spend summers together. Of course he will be at wedding.”

Hermione’s impressed by his deductive skills, but doesn’t have a chance to say so as he continues, “I talked to him some, and was not sure, so I made a little test and asked about the Weasley girl. Then I knew. No cousin would look like that.”

Hermione giggles, imagining Harry unable to keep his annoyance off his face. “That was very clever of you, Viktor.”

He glances over in surprise at that, then turns away with a gratifying pinkish tinge to his cheeks. “Yes, well, do not worry that I will give away secret.”

“I wasn’t,” Hermione says, threading her hand through his arm, and is relived to realize, after she says it, that it’s a hundred percent true. “I trust you, Viktor.” Then she makes a face, thinking about Harry’s extremely obvious struggle over his feelings for Ginny and his need to keep her safe. “What, exactly, did you say about Ginny?”

“How pretty she was,” Viktor says, as if the words mean nothing.

They mean something to Hermione, though. They shouldn’t, of course, but she can’t help the way she feels. “She is.”

Viktor gives her a look. “A test, mila. She is not my type, and too young besides. My eyes are only for one.”

He always does this. Even in fourth year, when they barely knew each other, Viktor has always been forthright and honest about his feelings. He admits his feelings as facts; objective and indisputable, they seem almost emotionless. Sometimes his frankness is refreshing. Other times, though it never carries with it the pressure for her to return the sentiments, it’s terrifying.

Hermione blurts out, “Tell me about the sign of Grindlewald.” Suddenly hesitant as it occurs to her that maybe Viktor doesn’t want to talk about it, she adds, “If you want.”

“It is… a symbol,” Viktor says after a moment that stretches on just long enough to tell Hermione that maybe he _was_ looking for an acknowledgement of his feelings, even if her answer wasn’t the one he wanted. “Grindlewald used it to represent the power that magic gave him over people who did not have magic. That mark was found beside my grandfather’s body.” Viktor swallows, hard. “Those who would wear it must be challenged.”

“And—forgive me, Viktor, but you’re _absolutely_ certain that’s the symbol Mr. Lovegood was wearing?”

“It is unmistakable,” he pronounces.

Hermione chews her bottom lip, disturbed by the idea the Mr. Lovegood could have—all this time—been harboring Grindlewald sympathies. It doesn’t add up. But Harry’s safety is paramount. And if that means second-guessing everything and everyone around him, that’s what she has to do. “I’ve never met him before today,” she begins carefully. “But he helped Harry, once, at a time when nobody else would. He publishes a magazine that, as far as I know, has only ever expressed anti-Voldemort sentiments when it comments on politics. And we know his daughter very well. She—well, what did he say when you confronted him?”

“That is was some sign of… hollow, I think he said. He acted like he did not understand what I was saying.”

“He might not have,” Hermione muses, then startles a little when she realizes what that sounded like. “Oh! Not that—I didn’t mean anything about your English, Viktor. Only that… well, he’s a little unusual. Luna’s forever ascribing things to strange creatures, or old folk ways nobody’s ever heard of, or...”

She stops mid-sentence as her mind makes connections she couldn’t have dreamed of a moment ago.

“Or?” Viktor prompts.

She turns her head to look up at him, eyes wide. “Viktor, have you ever heard of Adolf Hitler?”

Viktor grunts. “ _Nonmagique_ Germany, yes? Another in long line of men who believe some people are better than others. Who think they can murder and harm because they are _special_ in some way.”

“Precisely,” Hermione says, almost breathless with the excitement of solving a puzzle. “He had a symbol, too. But he didn’t make it up—he stole it from an ancient Muggle culture. It meant ‘well-being’ and he just appropriated it, and perverted it, to fit his own dogma. So now there are thousands of historical artifacts that have this symbol on them, something that’s come to represent some of the worst atrocities in human history…”

Viktor frowns, and she can see in the furrow of his brow that he’s making the same connections as her. “So you think this is the case here, too?”

Hermione nods. “Yes, I—it fits. Wizarding England’s a bit insular. Grindlewald never really had a foothold here, so we don’t teach much about him—I didn’t even _know_ he had a symbol until today, so Mr. Lovegood may not have, either. But if historically it has some other significance, particularly if its origins were here in England, I could see him knowing _that_.”

Viktor’s looking at her with an undisguised awe that makes her cheeks redden. “You are… most clever.”

The compliment warms her. “Me?” She knows she’s clever. It’s one of the things she believes in most about herself. But something about the way Viktor said it—like she’s clever, but it’s something that makes her interesting and wonderful, instead of a nuisance or teacher’s pet—it sits differently with her than the eye-rolling of her peers and the approval of her teachers.

It reminds her, actually, of Ron’s occasional moments of genuine appreciation for her. Just not tempered with bouts of annoyance when her cleverness gets in the way of what he wants.

“I will do some research when I return to Bulgaria,” he says. “If you are right, I will send an apology to Lovegood.”

“If you can still reach me, let me know too.” Hermione pauses. “I—I need to know if we can trust him, for Harry’s sake.”

Viktor grows still at this. “What are you saying?” he asks. “If I can still reach you? Have they stopped owls going to Hogwarts again?”

She can see the gathering clouds on his face as her heart speeds up, just a fraction. The air feels heavier around them. As much as she’s shared her life with him the past few years, through letters, she’s shielded him from the reality of how much danger she’s been in. Just like she did with her parents. And as it was with them, she doesn’t know how to share it with Viktor now without going back and explaining _everything_.

“I—” her breath catches, and then trembles a little as she continues, “I need you to promise this doesn’t go beyond us, okay? It’s a matter of life and death.”

Viktor’s hand clenches around her wrist, and she can tell by his white expression that he does not understand the idiom. “What are you—”

“I mean this information could get me killed, Viktor,” she says. “More than just me. Harry. Ron. I’m not kidding. If anyone even suspects I’ve told you something, it can put you in danger too.”

Viktor reaches up and wipes away a tear that’s spilled from her eye. “If it will put you in danger, perhaps it is best I don’t know.”

Hermione’s laugh sounds broken. “Are you really satisfied with that?”

“No,” Viktor says, looking grave. “But your life is more important than my satisfaction.”

Hermione sighs, and breaks eye contact by looking away for a brief moment. “As I told you a few months ago, my parents have moved out of the country. Hogwarts is under the impression they took me with them.”

She can see a light in Viktor’s eyes. “But you are with Order, now.”

“Yes and no,” she says. “Just—if you hear that Harry and I have disappeared, and Ron’s so ill nobody can get near him… don’t worry, okay?”

Viktor’s gaze is solemn. “Cannot promise that, you know.”

“Viktor…”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. Hear from news, or hear from Order?” he asks, and she’s so thankful for his brain.

“From anyone,” she says, voice hushed. “I don’t know how much longer you’ll be able to reach me, but—try, alright? I need to know if Lovegood is trustwor…” her eyes widen, and she lowers her voice before hissing, “What if he’s imperiled?”

Viktor shakes his head. “I do not know _im-per-iled_.”

“Technically it just means _in peril_ —in danger, you know—but I was thinking more _specifically_ along the lines of cursed,” Hermione supplies, and then, just a fraction of a second before she realizes it might be a touchy subject, “Imperiused.” She holds tight to Viktor’s hand as he shifts backward away from her, just a little, and watches his expression shutter.

“Hear me out,” she continues, voice a shade too high to be normal, though she’s trying her best to pretend she didn’t just jab Viktor directly in his Achilles’ heel. “The press in this country… well, they’re not a free press anymore, and I’m positive at least some of that is because of the Unforgivable curses. Lovegood is one of the last holdouts, and I think he’s only avoided being targeted so far because his magazine has a very, ah, _niche_ demographic. But what if he’s been Imperiused and is wearing that to warn us?”

A line, she has crossed a line. With considerable apprehension she watches Viktor weigh the notion in his head. She wants nothing more than to ask him his opinion, but can’t bear the idea of making him relive that. After a long moment, though, he says, “No, I do not think that is so.”

Her voice comes out hesitant. “Can you tell me why?”

He glances at her, then away, before taking a deep breath and meeting her eye. “He would need to know it was happening to make warning. The Imperius is not like… voice in head, saying to attack or hurt or write different article. It is natural, like breathing, or—or to put out a hand when you trip. You will not think, only do. If you do not think, you cannot know to fight.”

Hermione brings her hand up to cup his face, letting her fingertips stroke over his bearded jaw. She doesn’t know how to share with him the aching compassion she feels in this moment. “It wasn’t your fault, Viktor,” she says softly. “Nobody who knows what happened blames you.”

Her breath catches as Viktor covers her hand with his for a brief moment before moving it away from his face. He kisses her fingertips, then brings her hand town to rest on his knee.

She should leave it at that, but she _knows_ he still blames himself for attacking Fleur and there’s no logical reason for him to do so. So even though her brain knows better, her heart forces her to press the point. “I mean it, Viktor. Do you think Fleur would have invited you here if she held you responsible?”

“Stop now, Hermyonee,” Viktor says, voice low and with a dangerous edge that both scares and thrills her.

“Viktor—”

“ _Stop_ ,” he growls, and she falls silent at the look in his eyes—he’s never been angry _at_ her like this before. Her heart squeezes painfully.

“I’m sorry. I—shouldn’t have pushed.”

A silence descends between them. It’s miserable in a way their silences never have been. Awkward at the beginning, comfortable in the middle, but never this. Never unhappy.

“Did Potter speak the truth about you?” Viktor demands. “Are you and Weasley together now?”

She opens her mouth to call him out on changing the subject, but then realizes she does it to him all-too-frequently, and this is a wedding, and maybe it’s not the right time to reopen old wounds she might not have the time or ability to fully heal the way she wants to. So loath as she is to drop the only subject they’ve ever danced around, she has to.

“Does it matter if I am?” she asks, instead.

He doesn’t respond. The intensity of his gaze is answer enough.

She’d known since the minute she followed Viktor out of the wedding that this was coming, but still she doesn’t feel equal to giving him an answer. “Not—exactly.” Her words are slow, halting. “I think it’s clear to everyone who sees us that… something is changing. Ron’s been—” she breaks off, very aware that Viktor probably doesn’t want to hear about the compliments, and the gentle touches, the considerate gestures—“different, lately,” is what she settles on.

“And you?” Viktor asks, voice rough.

“And I’ve been receptive, I suppose,” she says after a moment’s thought, because she has. It’s nice to have someone who wants to dance with her—but less nice to know it’s partly to keep her away from others who might be more charming, more attractive, more _whatever_ insecurity Ron’s indulging at the moment. The compliments make her feel good, but unsettle her because she never knows what he’s going to say anymore, nor if she can trust it to be what he really thinks. “But sometimes it rings false, like he’s trying to be someone different because he thinks that’s how to please me. So that worries me, and it’s making me a bit skittish about the whole thing.”

She thought she’d known him so well. And she thought she’d wanted the person she understood him to be.

She doesn’t know how to say: _I wanted him for so long, but now that I might have him, there’s a chance he’s not what I want at all_. To phrase it so bluntly feels like a betrayal of the real affection and friendship she feels for Ron, and somehow cruel to Viktor at the same time.

“You do not like how he has changed?”

“Not exactly,” she hedges. “I do like that he’s been more considerate, and less dismissive, but I thought him changing like that would make me more certain of my feelings for him. Not less.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, the thrust of the point is that… no. No matter how much it looks like we’re going in that direction, at the moment we are _not_ together.”

 _But—_ she thinks, heart pounding in her chest. _But_.

She thinks about sliding her palm onto Viktor’s thigh. She thinks about leaning in and kissing him. She could stop wondering about Ron, and worrying about Harry, and give into something that has never required scrutiny.

After the Yule Ball, when she realized that Viktor hadn’t invited her as a way to manipulate her to get information about Harry or to have a cruel joke at her expense, her trust in him has never wavered. And whenever he is around her, instinct seems to take over.

She thinks about the promise she made him the last time they saw each other—that she’d return the favor—but at the last minute, stops herself from acting by dropping her head, and resting it against his shoulder.

Her eyes are fixed on the still pond, but she hears Viktor sigh, heavily, just before he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer. It still feels like a tableau Ron would be furious to discover, but she can’t think about that right now. If she ever wants to be with Ron, she needs to learn how to be around Viktor without… wanting him.

How to live with the fact that she fell in love in fourth year—and never quite fell out—with someone she can never truly have. How to exist in the world knowing that Viktor is out there. How to reconcile her strong feelings for Ron with her different but equally intense feelings for Viktor.

“The last time I saw you,” she begins quietly, “I made a promise to you about… the next time we saw each other.”

“Yes, I remember,” Viktor says, but his voice betrays no emotion and she’s frightened to look up at him. Just in case her people-assessing skills have gone wrong with him, the way they have with Ron, and she sees something she doesn’t want to see in his face.

“I can’t honor that promise,” she finishes, trying to keep her tone from slipping into _miserable_. She doesn’t think she succeeds, very much.

Viktor pulls her closer to him. He’s warm, and solid, and she wants to sink into his embrace and never leave. “I noticed,” he intones, and it’s so apparent to her, then, the difference that their three years makes.

She lets out a shuddering sigh, unable to decide how to proceed. It should be the end of it, really. She should get up and walk away and turn her back on everything she feels for Viktor. It could never really come to anything, anyway. And right now there’s something in front of her that… maybe could be something.

Suddenly, violently, she misses her mother with an ache that’s almost physical. Her mother never figured out how to relate to the magical aspect of her life, but boys… that kind of confusion is universal.

Viktor presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head, breaking her out of her reverie. She’s in the back garden at the Burrow, and behind her she can hear sounds of merriment coming from the wedding proper. “We can still be friends, yes?” he asks, and relief floods through her.

“Of course,” she says, and she’s certain he can hear her smile in her voice. “We were friends first, weren’t we?”

Viktor makes a noncommittal noise. “Perhaps so.”

Hermione wipes away the tear that had been threatening to spill from her eye, and takes a deep breath. Her words die forgotten on her lips as someone’s Patronus comes streaking through the distant gate, up the lawn toward the wedding. She twists out of Viktor’s arms to follow its progress up the lawn.

“We have to go,” she says, voice dull and flat, staring almost unfocused at the silvery form—a lynx, she sees now, _Kingsley_ —she doesn’t need to hear precisely what it’s saying to know that this is it. She turns back to a puzzled Viktor and crumples into his arms, squeezing him tightly as if she might freeze this moment, and take it with her when she goes.

“Herm—”

She cuts him off with a kiss, allowing her lips to linger for a few seconds too long. Her brain knows she needs to leave but her heart can’t allow it, not without making one final stand. “Go,” she whispers, eyes closed, keeping their foreheads pressed together, and can barely hear herself over her hammering heart and the sounds of terror coming from the marquee. “Be safe. I’ll write you when this is all over.”

She rips herself out of his arms before he can parse her words and stop her, grabs her bag, and sprints back toward the marquee and the only two people she can allow to matter right now. But even as she collides with Harry and grabs Ron’s arm, she catches sight of Viktor, running up the lawn—toward the chaos, not away. Toward _her_. And as she quarter-turns to apparate away, she can’t help but feel like she’s left a piece of her heart behind on the lakeshore.


	2. 25 December 1997

_Let my house be on a crossroads so that anyone passing through will come to visit, share our bread, take food for the road, and leave us his words of gratitude and wishes of health._

Dimiter Metodiev

* V *

Viktor’s just moving around the ashes in the fire place, letting it settle into a warm ember, when the proximity alarm on the north side of the house chimes. He frowns, setting down the poker, not sure who would be coming at almost 1am, even on Christmas Eve—Christmas Day, now. He shuffles to the window and peers out, seeing almost nothing in the near-darkness but a glimmer of frost blanketing the ground. Mama said snow tonight, so his breath fogging near the windowpane is no surprise.

Anyone to whom he has given the property’s secret would have apparated directly up to the front steps of the cabin—except his superstitious mama, but she’d hardly arrive at this time of night without floo-calling first—so Viktor’s disquiet increases. Whoever it is, they’re probably a mile away and won’t be able to get past his wards. Still, he lingers at the window for a moment.

He’s glad he did. A form as bright as daylight swims out of the woods into the clearing by his front door. It’s… an otter. Heart pounding, Viktor wastes no time in grabbing his coat and shoving his feet into slippers, heading outside to meet it.

“Please, Viktor,” it says, in a voice he _knows_. “We’re here. We need your help.”

“Show me,” he commands the Patronus, not sure if the communication works two ways, but it disappears back down the trail, into the woods.

He follows it out to the edge of his property, worry hurrying his pace until he’s flat-out running the last quarter of a mile. It could be a trap, of course—he could be running directly into it with just his wand, not even wearing proper shoes—but it could be—

Shock brings him up, hard, when he spies two forms on the cold ground just outside the boundary of his property—one laying on the ground, the other crouching over it. He knows, before he even gets close, who they belong to.

“Viktor,” the otter whispers and glows still more brightly before vanishing in the same instant that Viktor sees the crouching figure collapse. He sprints the last distance, feeling the shimmer of his wards as he bursts through them.

Hermione Granger is now half-draped over Harry Potter. She’s not moving, but Harry… Harry looks like he’s trapped in a nightmare. As gently as he can in his rush, Viktor attempts to roll Hermione off Harry, but she clings to him even in her unwaking state. Viktor swallows around a lump in his throat as he disentangles the two of them and rolls Hermione onto her back, holding one hand to the pulse point on her throat as he uses the other to try to shake Harry awake.

Hermione’s pulse is steady, if rapid, but Harry _will not wake_. The noises he’s making are terrifying, made worse still by the ominous presence of the dark forest surrounding them on all sides.

Viktor glances around the still woods; a quick charm tells him there are no other humans nearby. He doesn’t know how these two got here, or if it’s even truly them, but he can’t just leave them here. With care he scoops up Hermione’s limp form and walks her just a few steps toward the house, into the protection of his security charms before laying her down gently on the path and going back for Harry.

Harry’s rather more work, given the way the younger man is thrashing, but Viktor manages. A full-body bind would be very helpful in this case, but without knowing the cause of Harry’s issue Viktor’s hesitant to cast anything on him. Still, he doesn’t think he can get them up to the house by himself, and he doesn’t dare contact anyone else, given all that Hermione told him at Fleur’s wedding.

Viktor won’t be the one to get them caught. Saying a quick prayer, he apparates back to the house, summons blankets and his Quidditch first aid kit, then returns to the two unconscious Order members in his backyard.

Harry’s no better, but he also isn’t _worse_ , so Viktor transfigures a rock into a cot and places Hermione upon it, covering her with blankets. His healing training never went any further than basic first aid, but he does know a few diagnosing charms—a quick one on Hermione reveals only exhaustion, malnutrition, and a slight oxygen deficiency. He pinches her arm and her eyes flutter open for a moment, reassuring him that she is only asleep.

She won’t thank him, when she wakes, for neglecting Harry for her sake, so with a final squeeze to her hand he turns away, making another cot for Harry and getting himself kicked in the ribs for his trouble.

*

Viktor’s at his absolute limit a couple hours later. The snow has not been falling hard, but it’s been steady enough, and he’s freezing cold despite his many years of acclimation at Durmstrang. The whispers of the forest around them have him jumping at every sound. Just as he’s contemplating the best way to get Harry to the house without injuring either of them, Harry begins to wake. Viktor’s leaning over him in the blink of an eye.

“How do you feel?”

“Krum?” Harry asks. “Wha—” He jerks fully awake, demanding, “Where’s Hermione?”

“Asleep beside you,” Viktor answers quickly, registering Harry’s panic with a strange pang. He doesn’t like this age-old jealousy he has of Harry’s bond with Hermione. He doesn’t like feeling beholden to it. He watches as Harry struggles onto his elbows, glances over at Hermione, and collapses backward again in a mixture of relief and exhaustion. “Is it only you?”

Harry looks bewildered for a moment. Viktor wonders if perhaps he phrased the question wrong, but then Harry’s browline smooths out. “Yeah. Just us.”

Viktor wonders where their redheaded friend, the Weasley who clearly dislikes him, is. He doesn’t want to ask, in case the answer is something Harry doesn’t want to relive. “Must get to house. Stay still, I will float cot up.”

“Wait.” Harry tries to get up again. “Our wands—Hermione’s bag—”

“In my pocket,” Viktor says. He’d picked them up hours ago. Now’s not the time to tell Harry one of the wands has snapped in half, especially since Viktor’s fairly certain it’s not Hermione’s. “I have everything that was on the ground beside you.”

Harry clutches at his neck. “I was wearing—”

“Also in my pocket,” Viktor says. “It was burning you, I removed it.” Not without difficulty, either.

Harry turns white. “Give it here.”

Viktor’s stunned. “You have _burn_ ,” he says, wondering vaguely if it’s not the right word. Surely it is? He taps the angry pink skin exposed by Harry’s open shirt.

“I’m not joking, Krum,” Harry snaps, struggling up onto his elbows again. Viktor would laugh if the situation didn’t seem so dire—Harry’s in no fit state to stand, let alone fight him for anything.

Still staring incredulously, Viktor fishes the icy-cold locket out of his pocket and hands it over. Harry all but snatches it from him and places it back around his neck, but somehow seems to breathe easier once it’s on.

Viktor—well. He’s not going to ask. Not now, anyway.

He casts a featherlight charm on Hermione before cradling her in his arms. He could carry her without one, of course, but Harry’s cot will be tricky to manage if he’s focusing on Hermione. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder, and she makes a soft nose in her sleep, but does not wake.

“Stay still now, Potter,” he says, even before he’s taken his eyes away from Hermione’s face.

Harry’s half-asleep on his cot again. Viktor’s entirely unsurprised; if he’d been having an hours-long nightmare like Harry, he’d sleep for days. It’s Hermione’s exhaustion he’s more worried about, since he’s not sure what could be causing it. Well, he has a suspicion… but it seems impossible. He’ll have to ask her when she wakes.

Moving slowly to protect both of his charges, Viktor levitates the cot about a foot off the ground and begins the mile-long walk up to the house.

Harry’s fully asleep again by the time he makes it, and Hermione hasn’t stirred for a moment. He brings them into the house one by one, settling them in his bedroom.

Another quick check reveals no change to Hermione’s earlier diagnosis. Harry has an injured arm and malnutrition. Now that he’s no longer beholden to his nightmare, and sleeping peacefully, Viktor takes care of it as best he can.

He places Hermione’s wand in her hand, so she will have it when she wakes, and retires to the living room. A glance at the clock reveals it’s now almost five in the morning. A glance out the window shows the sun, just beginning to rise.

* H *

When Hermione finally manages the energy to open her eyes, she’s laying in a bed. The unfamiliar room is warm, and in the corner a small lamp provides a measure of illumination. In panicked reflex, her fingers clutch and she can feel her wand. She lets out a sigh of relief.

She can hear light snoring beside her, and turns to see Harry, still out cold but no longer in the throes of whatever had possessed him when they left Godric’s Hollow. They’re side by side in the bed, each covered in different blankets. She takes stock and notices that her coat and boots have been removed, but nothing else. Harry’s outerwear is gone as well; his face has been washed, and one arm is bandaged. The front buttons of his shirt are hanging open, and there’s an angry-looking burn on his chest, no doubt caused by the locket hanging around his neck.

With great effort, she heaves herself out of the bed and—still clutching her wand—takes shaky steps to the bedroom door. Her legs are unsteady beneath her and she has to catch herself twice—once on the dresser, once on the doorframe.

Just outside the door is a living area, and there’s a blanket-covered form on the couch. It opens its eyes at the sound of her stumbling around.

“You are awake,” Viktor says, in a tone of surprise, and she pushes away from the doorframe to step toward him.

With the reflexes of a seeker, Viktor is off the couch and catching her before she realizes she’s falling. He supports her weight as he guides them both to the couch, scolding gently all the way.

“Should be sleeping, I do not know why you wake—”

He settles her on the couch, moving his pillow to help her sit, fussing in a way that Hermione finds vaguely motherly. She lacks even the energy to grin, but Viktor’s ministrations are touching all the same.

“How…?” she asks.

“You must tell me,” Viktor says. “You did not send word, and you show up in such a state—”

Hermione closes her eyes, remembering. “We apparated. Or. I did, and I brought Harry with me.”

“Apparated from where?”

“Godric’s Hollow,” Hermione drowses. She finds she can’t keep her eyes open. She leans heavily against Viktor’s chest.

Viktor shakes her and she blinks. “That is in England? You have apparated from _England_?”

“From England,” Hermione confirms, wondering why Viktor sounds so shocked as she falls asleep once more.

*

When she wakes again, she’s back in the bed. Viktor must have carried her there, she realizes, because she has no memory after sitting down on his couch. But then… he must have brought them into the house, too.

The light in the corner is off now, and afternoon sunlight is doing its best to stream through the mostly-closed blinds. There’s a wintry feel to the air, and it takes her a moment to realize it’s caused by the sun reflecting off a blanket of fresh snow. If she hadn’t been able to cast that Patronus—if Viktor hadn’t come looking—

Hermione rolls over onto her side and checks on Harry again. His breathing is deep and even; she’s not sure if he woke at any point but it doesn’t look like he did much, if he did.

Viktor is in the living room as before, but the lights are on and he’s reading a book. She’s vaguely disappointed by the way he instantly senses her presence and looks up; the house is so calm and inviting that she sort of wanted to bask in the illusion that all is well and nobody needs to be looked after.

The war has not touched this home. Not until she brought it here.

“How are you feeling?” Viktor asks.

“Tired,” Hermione answers truthfully. “A little hungry.” She leaves out how her body still feels unsteady beneath her, though she didn’t have to grab anything for support on her five-foot walk to the living room—so that’s an improvement, at least.

Viktor shuts his book without marking his place, and stands. “Come, I will show you bathroom. Will want shower, yes? I will warm food while you wash.”

Hermione almost cries at the thought of a real, actual shower. “Thank you,” she says. “That sounds… heavenly.”

The shower is even better than she’d imagined, and for several minutes she just stands beneath the water, letting the heated water slide over her, warming her from the outside in. For the first time in months, she feels utterly secure, and allows herself a few moments to luxuriate in it. Because she knows when she get out there, she and Viktor are going to have to have a conversation, and check on Harry, and—

She stops that train of thought, borrowing a dollop of Viktor’s shampoo to work through her wet hair. She recognizes the scent of it, so it must be the same kind that he used during the tournament. Memories of a happier time wash over her.

When she’s lingered to the point of decadence, she reluctantly decides it’s time to leave. The towel Viktor had handed her earlier turns out to be a bundle that includes a pair of pajama pants and a long-sleeved shirt with the logo of the Vratsa Vultures on it. Both are comically too large for her, but she dons the t-shirt over a pair of her own jeans, pushing the sleeves up her arms.

Hermione performs a quick drying spell on her hair, and steps out of the slightly fogged bathroom. The cabin smells wonderful, reminding her vividly of just how long it’s been since she or Harry have had a real meal. Her stomach is already growling when she steps into the kitchen.

“Viktor, I’m so sorry—”

He holds up a hand to stop her, throwing the towel he’d been wiping his hands with over one shoulder and pointing to a seat at the small kitchen table. “Sit.” As she obeys, he continues, “Apologies can come later. Christmas is not for saying sorry.”

With a gasp, Hermione covers her mouth. “Oh no, it’s Christmas—your _family_ —oh, Viktor—”

“What did I say?” he asks, mildly. “Apologies are for later. You would not be here if it was not important.”

“I just needed someplace safe,” Hermione says miserably, burying her face in her hands. “I don’t know why I chose here, it was just the first place I thought of—oh, no wonder I’m exhausted.”

“Very dangerous to apparate so far,” Viktor agrees. “You must promise not to again.”

“Twenty-five hundred kilometers,” Hermione says, closing her eyes. Merlin, that was stupid of her. “I looked it up once. It’s a miracle we made it here in one piece.”

“Christmas is for miracles,” Viktor says gently, putting a plate in front of her. “Eat now. We will talk later.”

He hasn’t made a plate for himself. “Aren’t you eating?”

“If you wish,” he answers.

Hermione nods. “Please keep me company. Tell me about what you’ve been doing.” She’s desperate for knowledge of the outside world that isn’t fraught with tension and the constant, low-grade anxiety that colors everything that touches her.

The dish Viktor’s made is unfamiliar to her, but the spices taste of winter and it’s warm and delicious. She eats a bit too fast as Viktor tells her of training and Quidditch and neither of them mention the war. She does not know if it’s because it hasn’t come this far east, or if it’s because he wants to avoid the topic for now.

She’s grateful for it anyhow, feeling too drained to worry about anything other than Harry at the moment.

“Harry’s still asleep,” Hermione comments after she’s finished eating, casting a look toward the open bedroom door.

“This is not surprising,” Viktor comments. “Last night, when you came, he was in much distress. So were you. You had,” he pats his collarbone, right at the throat, “no breath. Blue fingers. He could not stop thrashing.”

Hermione feels guilty that she fell unconscious instead of helping. He’d been so agitated, seemingly trapped inside of a nightmare. “We were attacked,” she explains, choosing her words with care to keep everyone involved out of danger. “By—” she trails off, unsure what degree of information to share with Viktor.

“Snake?” Viktor guesses. “Very big snake, if bites on Potter are gauge.”

Well, she isn’t going to _lie_ to him. “Yes. And when I got us here, he was…” again words fail her, but for an entirely different reason. The realization of just how close she came to losing Harry—the sheer foolhardiness of her split-second non-plan—overwhelms her for a moment and chokes the end of the sentence from her throat.

“I know,” Viktor says, voice kind. “I was up with him for some time, trying to help. It was nearly dawn when he woke.”

“How was he?” Hermione asked anxiously. To think that she’d been beside him on the bed all that time, oblivious, when she was merely tired. Not injured, just exhausted. It feels like she’s let him down, somehow.

“Confused,” Viktor says. “Worried for you, did not know how you came to be here. I had no answers for him. It was not long before he was asleep again.”

She worries her bottom lip. “I’m just going to go check on him,” she begins, thinking of the nightmares and the broken wand on the bedside table and everything else they need to talk about.

Viktor’s eyes are dark, and betray nothing. He nods once.

Harry is still asleep when she enters the bedroom, but his breathing is shallower and she feels he may be close to waking. So she sits beside him on the bed, smoothing a hand over his forehead. His eyes flutter open, but she watches him relax once he makes her out. She hands him his glasses, which Viktor had also left on the bedside table.

“Thanks,” he says, croaks, still groggy, as he sits up and takes in the fact that for the first time since the summer, they’re in a real house. “Where are we?” he asks.

“Viktor Krum’s,” Hermione tells him, and watches him absorb the information.

“So that wasn’t a dream,” he says. “But… doesn’t Krum live in Bulgaria?”

“Yes…” Hermione says. “I—well, Harry, I did a dumb thing.”

“Tell me you didn’t apparate us halfway round the world, Hermione.”

She tries a smile. “I… can’t tell you that.”

He blinks at her. Then his face breaks out in an amused smile, and he shakes his head. “You’re amazing.”

She blushes with surprise and pleasure. “It’s not the _furthest_ anyone’s apparated, the record is eight thousand kilometers, successfully, eleven thousand if you allow for non-fatal splinching—”

“My record’s about a hundred kilos,” Harry says. “You’re brilliant. But… I hadn’t thought you’d ever been here before.”

Hermione brightens. “I haven’t, but Viktor sent me photos of the house and the grounds when he bought it, so I had it very clearly in mind. I think we landed about a mile shy of where I was trying to get us, but that might just be how far out his wards extend—I haven’t asked.”

There’s a pause where she just watches Harry, his eyes moving around the room.

Softly she says, “We might have to stay here a day or two. Bringing us both this far took a lot out of me. And… then there’s your wand.”

*

While Harry showers, Hermione wanders into the kitchen to find Viktor, who’s heating up the leftover food he’d made earlier.

“Is it time for apologies yet?” she asks, and though his back is to her she sees him stiffen, and then consciously relax.

“No,” he answers, “but perhaps time for questions, yes?”

“Yes,” she agrees, and sits down at the small table again. It’s only large enough to accommodate two. The whole house is like that; cozy and intimate, but really only large enough for one person to live there, and occasionally host a guest. It somehow feels both right and wrong; like Viktor and unlike him all at once. “May I go first?”

He nods, leaning up against the counter.

“What kind of security measures do you have up? I assume something, but—”

“Fidelius spell,” he interrupts. “I keep own secret. It is for fans.”

She nods, confirming her own suspicion. “That’s why I couldn’t get any closer than I did.”

He shakes his head. “That is not why. I gave you the secret long ago, in letter with pictures. But you could not bring Potter, because he did not know it.”

There’s something there too big for Hermione to look directly at, but luckily a thought strikes her. “You bought this house right after graduation, and Dumbledore only just taught the Order how to use the Fidelius without having an outside secret-keeper last year…”

Viktor looks pleased. “Yes, I was the one to test spell after he modified it. My first task for the Order.”

She wants very much to ask what other tasks he does, but knows she shouldn’t. “I can’t apparate us back to England,” she says instead. “I’m still amazed it worked once, and I really think if I tried again, I’d injure us both. Harry and I have a tent, and if you let me I’ll set it up—”

“No tent,” Viktor says. He sounds… offended, Hermione realizes. “Fine host I will be, allowing guests to sleep in tent when I have warm home...” He shakes his head, muttering, “Tent.”

“We’re uninvited guests, though,” Hermione says. “I can’t put you to any more trouble than we already have—”

“We do not have word for _uninvited guest_ , in Bulgarian. We only have guests. You are no trouble. When friends come visiting, it is a joy.” Viktor shrugs. “And since my house is hidden, I do not often get the chance.”

Hermione yawns, covering her mouth in embarrassment. Viktor appears unruffled.

“Go nap,” he says. “I will wake you for dinner.”

She feels torn. She can still hear the water running. “Harry’s going to need his arm re-bandaged when he finishes.” But as she’s saying it, she yawns again.

“I can do it,” Viktor tells her. “I will tend to it as I did before.”

“There’s dittany in my bag,” she begins, but Viktor waves her off.

“I have attar of hyssop—like your dittany, I think, but better. Much used for healing. Soon his bites will be… what is your saying? Right as rain?”

“That’s right,” she says with some surprise as she summons her beaded handbag and digs around for the bottle of essence of dittany. Finding the small bottle, she sets it on the metal surface of the table with a small clink. “Just in case,” she says, unable to help herself.

Viktor makes a face. “Worry about self, for once. Go nap. I will see to Potter.”

She doesn’t move right away, torn between her body’s involuntary shutdown and her mental desire to stay and look after Harry. They’ve been literally inseparable for months—she feels wrong, somehow, leaving his side.

“Shoo now,” Viktor says, “before I pick you up and carry you to bed myself.”

Hermione’s last thought as she leaves the kitchen is that his threat doesn’t sound half bad.

* V *

It’s not long after Hermione leaves for her nap that Viktor hears the shower turn off. Harry hadn’t lingered the way Hermione had. The boy comes into the kitchen only a few minutes later, looking clean and wary.

“Would you like something to eat?” Viktor asks, and Harry just stares at the plate of food for a moment.

“Where’s Hermione?” he asks.

“Asleep again. She is still very tired from the apparition.”

Harry blinks. “I’m going to check on her.” He doesn’t wait for Viktor to acknowledge him, but returns after only a minute—carrying Hermione’s wand, something Viktor notices only a split-second before Harry points it at him.

Viktor opens his hands to show that they’re empty. He knows Harry is more than capable of causing harm, but he is not worried in this moment.

“I have to know,” Harry begins fiercely. “Are you going to turn us in?”

Viktor frowns. “Why would I do that?”

“Because there’s a 10,000 galleon price on our heads. Because I barely know you and have no idea what motivates you. But Hermione trusts you, she trusts you enough that you’re the first person she thought of when we were in trouble and needed somewhere to go.” Harry’s voice shakes, just a little. “I… can’t let you hurt her. She’s been through enough. So I have to ask, because she won’t… is her trust in you misplaced?”

“I won’t betray her, or you,” Viktor says evenly. “Do you believe that, or would you have me swear blood oath?”

“You’d do that?” Harry’s fierceness seems to waver a little at Viktor’s unruffled tone.

“If I had to,” Viktor assures him. “But I would prefer not to, it is difficult magic with dangerous consequences.”

Harry thinks for a moment, then lowers the wand. “Sorry. I had to check.”

Viktor nods. “I understand. But perhaps as recompense, you can answer a question? I am afraid to ask her, in case it is a sad subject.”

“Go ahead,” Harry says, sitting down at the table and pulling the plate toward him. He digs into the food with even more enthusiasm than Hermione had. Viktor watches him for a moment as he decides how to begin.

“At the wedding, Hermione said you three would be traveling—her, you, and Weasley. Where is he?”

Harry’s head snaps up. “She told you that? At Fleur’s wedding?”

“Not her exact words. It was more in what she did not say, you understand?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, sounding dazed. He gives Viktor a strange, appraising look. “She really—she trusts you that much?”

Viktor only shrugs. She hadn’t told him anything more than she’d told the Order, but… oh, perhaps that’s it. It sounds as though she hadn’t told the Order much at all.

“It appears to be so. But your friend? Why… is he not here?”

Harry’s face hardens. “We fought. He abandoned us.” Suddenly his gaze turns keen. “And listen, Krum—she’s devastated about it, so don’t…”

Viktor’s not sure what Harry’s trying to say. Don’t ask her about it? Don’t try to fuck her? Don't make any grand declarations of love? He waits patiently for clarification.

“…don’t complicate the situation, alright? He’ll be back sooner or later, and it’s going to be hard enough for her without having to feel feel guilty about you on top of everything else.”

Viktor looks at him resolutely. “I will not do anything she doesn’t want.” That's the most he can promise.

Harry stares him down for a moment before relenting. “Fine. Good.”

* H *

Hermione drifts back into consciousness in the small bedroom, feeling groggy and unable to wake fully. She’s never been skilled at naps, preferring to power through exhaustion while studying and sleep all at once after the exam or essay is finished. She can hear low voices coming from the general direction of the kitchen, and her adrenaline takes a mild spike before her conscious mind identifies them as Harry and Viktor’s—as, of course, they would be.

Her momentary panic has woken her up definitively, though, so she pulls herself from the bed and pads on stocking feet to the kitchen. The couch in the living room has been pushed back away from the fireplace, and the coffee table is missing—probably transfigured into the small dining table that’s in the space it used to occupy. There are three high-backed chairs arranged around it and three place settings of what appears to be fine china and nice silver.

Viktor and Harry are deep in quiet conversation, sitting at the kitchen table, but look up when she comes in.

Viktor stands. “Dinner soon. Did you sleep well?”

Hermione smiles. “Yes, Viktor, thank you. Can I help in any way?”

He is already opening a cabinet, pulling down three wine glasses. “Yes, help by sitting with Potter and drinking wine.” He waves his wand at a bottle Hermione hadn’t noticed and the cork slides out with a neat popping noise and the susurration of bubbles. “This was a gift from friend, I have saved it for special occasion. What is more special than Christmas?”

Harry appears to take the fact that it’s Christmas in stride. Perhaps they’d already discussed it.

“Really, how can I help?”

“I have told you,” Viktor says, utterly unruffled. “Be toasty by fire, drink wine, relax for the first day since wedding. Potter has told me of your long time camping.”

“ _Has_ he?” Hermione says, mostly to Harry, raising one eyebrow. “Has he told you a lot, Viktor?”

“Only that you are weary of heart with difficult quest,” Viktor says, pressing an overful wine glass at Hermione. She accepts, partly because she can tell Viktor isn’t going to take no for an answer, and partly because the idea of curling up by the fire with a glass of wine sounds exceptionally nice. “You are safe here.”

His words are matter-of-fact, but she knows instinctively that they are no less sincere for it. “Thank you,” she says gratefully, trying to keep the sudden swell of emotion she feels from choking her voice and only partially succeeding. Harry takes that as a cue to rise from the table with his own glass of wine, and she goes with him into the living room.

Harry sits down on the couch, holding one arm out in invitation, and she curls on the cushion beside him and leans her head against his shoulder.

“Happy Christmas, Hermione,” he says. Gone is the barely-tamped-down anger he’d reacted with the last time they spoke and she’d showed him his broken wand. Hermione’s not sure what’s lifted his mood, as the chain of the locket is still visible around his neck, but she’s grateful all the same.

“Happy Christmas, Harry.”

After a moment’s reflection she says, staring into the merrily crackling fire, “I wonder what Monica and Wendell are doing now.” Harry doesn’t say anything, and she continues, “Do they celebrate Christmas? What are their traditions?”

“I used to wonder that about my parents,” Harry tells her. “I would sit in the living room while Dudley opened his fifty presents, and I would look at my—my lump of coal, or box of tissues, or whatever they wrapped up that year, and I’d wonder what it would be like if my parents were alive.” Hermione doesn’t say anything—Harry so rarely speaks about his childhood, except in the vaguest and most fleeting of terms—and she’s afraid if she reminds him she’s here, he’ll realize what he’s doing and stop.

“I asked Sirius once,” he continues, thumb stroking absently against her shoulder, where his arm is wrapped around her back. “He told me about what my grandparents did for Christmas the year he lived with them, but my parents… he didn’t know. They’d only been married a couple years when I was born. How long does it take to make a tradition?”

Hermione doesn’t have an answer to that. She grabs her glass of wine, takes a sip, and settles back against Harry.

Viktor enters the room then—or rather, several bowls and trays of food levitate into the room, followed by Viktor. He sets everything on the table with a flick of his wand, crockery clattering quietly, and adjusts the fire with another murmured word. When his eyes fall on the two of them, practically sitting in each other’s laps, he does not comment beyond,

“Please, sit.” But something about his mannerism seems… stiff, Hermione decides.

Hermione ends up in the middle, facing the fireplace, with Viktor on her left by the entryway to the kitchen, and Harry on her right between the table and a window with the curtains partially drawn to reveal a winter scene straight out of a landscape painting. Viktor’s home is only a hundred meters or so from a rocky slope on one side, and it allows for a sweeping view of what he'd identified in his letters as Mont Okolchitsa.

Hermione raises her glass of wine. “To Viktor, a very gracious host, even under the most surprising of circumstances.”

Harry mimics her, and Viktor touches his wineglass to each of them.

“To you both,” he says. “May you find all that you seek.”

They drink in silence and begin passing dishes around the table; Hermione recognizes some of them but not others, and there’s a lot more than she would have expected, given their unexpected arrival.

She begins, “So, Viktor, what exactly did Harry tell you about what we’re doing?”

“Not much,” Harry interjects. “Just that Dumbledore gave us some tasks, and we’re trying to get them done without getting ourselves killed. And that we need to get back to England without being seen.”

“Yes,” Hermione sighs. “I really don’t know how we’re going to accomplish that. We don’t exactly have time to apparate in steps back. Going at a reasonable pace will take… at least two weeks, probably longer.”

“You did it once,” Harry says. “Doesn’t that mean you can do it again?”

“Not exactly. It means I’m magically capable of the distance, which doesn’t surprise me, but I don’t have the physical conditioning. What I did last night was the equivalent of running a marathon without training for it. We almost suffocated from how long we were cut off from fresh air, and the longer the distance the harder it is to maintain the apparition without splinching. There’s so much more time to get distracted, you see. To do it once and live is a story to tell your grandchildren about. To do it a second time without preparing for it would be foolish at best, and suicide at worst.”

Harry turns to Viktor, nodding his head toward the fireplace. “Is that on the Floo network?”

“Calls only, no travel. For security reasons. But I have an idea,” Viktor says. “It will not get you back very much sooner, but it will be considerably easier. You may need some patience.”

“What is it?”

Viktor looks a bit shifty. “I have… friend. I cannot say where from, only that she is trustworthy. She can make me a secret portkey into England—not traceable. But she is away for the holiday, will not be home until new year.”

“But that’s a week away,” Hermione says. “And… well, we haven’t any money for things like that.”

“Technically we do,” Harry contributes, and when Hermione stares at him blankly, he clarifies, “In my vault at Gringott’s.”

“That’s not much help to us here.”

“Money is no issue,” Viktor says. “If there is a cost, I will pay.”

Hermione turns to him, very distressed by the idea. “Viktor, you can’t.”

“I can.”

“But even if she is your friend, those sorts of things are frightfully expensive. We’ve already imposed upon you so much. Showing up each of us practically half-dead, on Christmas Eve of all days, ruining your holiday with your family—”

“It is no trouble,” Viktor says. “And as for money… I do not wish to boast, but I am famous athlete, mila.”

“That’s not the _point_.”

“Trust me, yes?” Viktor asks abruptly.

“Of course,” Hermione says, wondering how many points he’s going to stand firm on.

“Then trust that I make offer freely,” he says, with a harder-than-usual note to his voice, and a grim set to his jaw. Hermione catches his gaze flick toward Harry, and then back to her. It occurs to her that he’s not saying something he might have said if they were speaking privately. She watches his eyes and sees him decide to change subject. “We have time to speak of details later. Work is not a rabbit, and will not run away.”

Hermione wishes, desperately, that Harry would say something. But it appears he’s trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible, avoiding looking directly at either of them and just eating his food. His wine is almost completely gone already, Hermione notices. Viktor must see her watching, because he waves his wand and the bottle of wine refills Harry’s glass—a touch more than she probably would have given him.

Hermione tears her eyes from Harry and accidentally catches sight of Viktor, who looks like a stormcloud has taken up residence exclusively above his head. So her eyes move away from Viktor, too, and focuses on the pile of food on her plate.

They’ve been half-starving for months, but she has no appetite. However, if they’re going to be stuck here for a while—and she refuses to believe that they can’t find another solution, but since she doesn’t have a plan yet, she has to proceed as if they’re going to go with Viktor’s—she may as well _try_ to build up her strength. Magical strength, body nourishment, rest.

Actually, it sounds like exactly what they both need, she muses. But they don’t have time to luxuriate in the company of friends when they have loved ones on the front line, diverting attention away from them and risking their lives every day.

How can they repay their trust and solidarity by… spending a lovely week in a cozy cabin on a mountain, surrounded by a pristine blanket of snow? More than that—a week with Viktor, of all people, is only going to stir up emotions she’s been trying to bury for months. He is a distraction she can ill afford.

“This is very good,” Hermione tries, and her voice sounds weak and forced. Harry will pick up on the tone—Viktor may not, since the majority of their conversations occur in letters.

“Compliment is not for me,” Viktor says, reluctantly re-engaging in the conversation. “Papa is the cook in family. We have family celebration last night, Mama sends me home with leftovers to feed whole Quidditch team.” He grins—just a little one, but it makes Hermione’s heart lighten. “Mama thinks I am too skinny, you see.”

Harry snorts into his wine. Viktor’s filled out—a _lot_ —since graduating. Where once he was tall and lanky, now he’s tall and solid.

“Does your family always celebrate on Christmas Eve?” Hermione asks, half to make conversation and half because after the conversation with Harry on the couch, she’s wondering.

Viktor nods. “That is why they do not miss me today. While you slept, I fire-called and said friends from school have come visiting. They thought Durmstrang and I did not correct.” An honest-to-God dimple appears in his cheek. “Most difficult part of conversation was convincing them not to bring the party here. You are causing no trouble to be here.”

Hermione relaxes a little. It does marginally soothe her conscience, but not enough to accept that they’re going to be imposing on Viktor for a week. She takes a sip of her wine. “Do you think there’s a chance they’ll show up unannounced?”

Viktor shakes his head. “I do not think so. And if they do, we will have warning—Mama is superstitious about apparating through wards, so she will make them all walk the last mile. There is no reason to worry.”

* V *

They don’t linger over dinner. Hermione levitates the dishes into the sink, and Viktor transforms the table back into its original form before following her. Harry remains on the couch with what’s left of the wine. Just as well Viktor doesn’t keep much in the house.

Hermione’s already most of the way through the dishes when he enters, efficient witch that she is, and Viktor feels a burst of annoyance that quickly fades—because truthfully he’d expected her to do something like this earlier.

“I do not know about England,” he begins, “but here is rude to expect a guest to do chores.”

“In England it’s rude to be a burden on your host,” Hermione counters, finishing the dishes he’s emptied of leftovers.

“Yes, we do the same dance here. You ask to help, I say no. Here people listen.” _Sometimes_ , he mentally adds, thinking of his mama and Elyse.

“Well I’m sorry I can’t even manage to be a houseguest properly,” Hermione snaps. There’s a tremble in her voice that spreads throughout her body, and she lowers her wand with a shaking hand. The cup she’d been washing clatters into the sink. “I’m sorry we’ve come here and ruined your holiday—”

Viktor knows this reaction is far too extreme for just the one comment, so he mentally backpedals through everything that’s happened since he got home last night. Perhaps something was lost in translation?

“Mila,” he begins, in the gentlest voice he can manage, “What caused this? Did I say… wrong thing?”

She deflates a little at that. “No, you’ve been—wonderful. So kind and accommodating, and I feel terrible about just showing up like this. And Harry’s been a bear about it all, and…” she shrugs. “I just don’t know how to make the situation better. I didn’t plan for this. And we’re both a little tired of not knowing what to do.”

She looks like she needs a hug, so Viktor draws her into his arms and tips her head up to look at him. She manages a brief smile before looking down again, but she rests her head against his chest, so he counts it as a win. “To be so young, and carry such heavy expectations,” he rumbles. “This feeling is not so strange to me.”

She half-laughs, half-sighs. “You’re right. I forget, sometimes, the extraordinary life you’ve lived. You’re just Viktor to me, you know.”

The words touch him. “I am glad. But please take advice from young celebrity Viktor Krum.”

She hums quietly, and finally looks up. “What’s that?”

He tries to think of the best way to phrase the advice she’s almost certainly not going to want to take. He knows he hadn’t, at her age, and the stakes were much lower then. “When respite finds you, do not turn away. Take what you can and use it to make you stronger.”

*

Viktor invites them both to sit with him in the evening. Although Hermione initially accepts for both of them, Harry stays only about five minutes—just long enough to finish his wine—before standing abruptly to announce he’s off to bed.

Instantly concerned, Hermione begins to stand too. “Are you feeling all right? It’s early.”

“I’m fine,” Harry responds shortly. His face softens right away, along with his tone. “Really, Hermione, I’m all right. I just want to be by myself for a little while.” As a clear afterthought, Harry glances over at Viktor. “No offense.”

“Do you need any things?” Viktor asks. “Toothbrush or clothes perhaps?”

“That’s all in the bag,” Hermione says softly, hovering in an uncertain way between Harry and the couch. “Harry, are you sure—”

“I’m sure,” Harry says. “I’ll see you both in the morning.”

After he leaves, Hermione lets out a long sigh. It sounds content, almost. “That’s right,” she says, sinking back onto the couch. “No guard duty tonight.”

“Or any night, as long as you remain here,” Viktor says.

Hermione rolls her neck along the cushion on the couch to look at him. “Viktor, I can’t tell you what that means to me,” she murmurs.

“Cannot have been easy,” he ventures, “to go from three people to two, and still have all the same work to do.”

“Harry told you about that, did he?” she asks, and there’s just a hint of bitter resignation in her voice.

“Yes,” he answers simply.

“How much did he say?”

“Not much. Only that Weasley was there, and there was an argument, and he left.”

Hermione snorts. “That’s certainly the abridged version.”

“That you were… heartsick.”

“Yes,” Hermione says in a wry tone, taking a sip of her wine. She looks down at the glass and swirls it around a little. “He’d think that, I’m sure.”

“It is not true?” Viktor asks. “At wedding—”

“It’s been a long five months, Viktor.” She sighs again, and shifts to curl her legs up onto the couch. It moves her a little closer to him, close enough that he can feel her body heat—her reassuring _aliveness_. “You learn a lot about a person and what they value most when you’re thrust into a difficult situation with them. Well, I learned that I don’t have a lot of patience for the person he becomes in hard times, and I’m sure he learned the same about me. And whatever, at the wedding, I thought we might be building toward… if the last few months hadn’t put a stop to it, the way he left certainly did.”

“Harry thinks he will come back.”

“I’ve no doubt he will,” Hermione says, with an absolute certainty that only confuses Viktor. “But when he does, I’m still not ever going to be able to believe he won’t leave again. And I can’t…” She takes another swallow of wine, then glances in the direction of the closed bedroom door and lowers her voice still further. “The two of us, we were all Harry had. And now it’s just me, and I can’t—” her voice cracks. “Viktor, I can’t protect him all on my own. I thought if I prepared enough, and read the right books, and learned the best spells—but I always thought there would be three of us—and I can’t take any chances with Harry’s safety, and I’m so _angry_ that he’s left and put me in this impossible situation.”

She angrily wipes a tear away with the back of her hand and sets her wineglass on the coffee table. “We’re too young for this,” she says softly. “I’ve cried myself to sleep at least twice since he left, because I’m out of solutions and we’ve completely lost our way. And Harry… well, never mind. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

She looks young and old at the same time. Viktor doesn’t know what else to do, so he holds out his arms. “Come here, milichka.”

Hermione settles herself in his hug like she’s always belonged there. As she rests her body weight against him, he realizes she’s not going to pull away immediately, so he begins to stroke the top of her head, letting his fingers card through her hair.

“You are safe here,” he murmurs, repeating his words from earlier—he’d seen in her eyes, then, how desperately she’d needed to hear them. Her fingers clench in the fabric of his shirt for the briefest of moments as her breath hitches.

They sit there for a long time in silence. He loses track of the moments as he surrenders to the present, trying to commit to memory the sweet smell of wood-smoke, Hermione’s warm body a reassuring weight against him, the small clock on the mantlepiece softly ticking the seconds past. Hermione’s voice is a little scratchy when she finally says, “Tell me about Christmas here.”

“What about it?” he asks, as if this is the most natural continuation of their previous conversation.

“Tell me how you celebrate it,” she requests, not making any move to get up, or end or lessen their embrace. “If we hadn’t shown up, what would you be doing right now?”

“Right now?” he asks, thinking. “I would be in sitting room with family. Adults would be talking, drinking wine or port. Children playing even though it is much past time for bed.” He smiles. “Little—remind me, word for brother’s daughter?”

“Niece,” Hermione supplies. “It’s the same for sister’s daughter, for what it’s worth.”

“Thank you. Little niece, Iskra, wearing fuzzy pajamas with feet, probably climbing on me. She is like a small monkey, but kicks more.”

Hermione smiles. “You sound as if you don’t mind.”

“Why mind?” he asks, thinking of Iskra’s dark, messy curls and the surprisingly strong grip of her tiny fingers. “Means I am favorite.”

“Aren’t you used to that by now?”

“What, from fans?” He wrinkles his nose. “Not the same. She is only three—she knows nothing of Quidditch, I am favorite because I am the best uncle, the most fun to play with.”

“I see,” Hermione says, sounding amused in spite of herself. “An important distinction.”

“One I usually cannot make,” Viktor reminds her gently. “Not everyone forgets I am famous like you do.”

“I don’t forget,” she says, voice hushed. “I shouldn’t have said that. I only meant… when you grow up friends with Harry Potter, that sort of thing just doesn’t matter.”

“I am glad for it,” Viktor says. “It means I can let myself care for you, without worry that you are going to take advantage.”

And there it is—that telling silence that lets him know he’s pushed her just a _little_ too far out of her comfort zone. But he can’t stop himself, sometimes. He feels that he can be honest and vulnerable around her, and he always gets swept up in the moment. He’d feel worse about it if he wasn’t so sure that she felt the same way, too. But she always changes the subject, and he always lets her, because to press her on the subject feels wrong when he’s so acutely aware of their age and power differential. It’s his responsibility to let her meet him on her terms, and if right now she’s not ready to face head-on the attraction between them—that has to be enough. Even if it hurts.

“I’m glad. Now, what about Christmas Eve?” she asks, as if he’s not even said that last sentence. “You’re with your family then, you said?”

“Yes,” he answers, and begins to tell her about the Krum family Christmas Eve traditions, all the while privately counting it a victory that she hasn’t moved out of his arms.


	3. 26 December 1997

*V*

The next morning, Viktor wakes with the sun out of habit. The house is still and quiet, the embers of the died-down fire glowing orange in the grate. He gets up and pokes at them a little, making preparations to revive the fire. A glance out the window promises another fine, clear day. With no clouds to trap heat, the exposed mountainside will be chilly for sure.

He doesn’t hear anything from the bedroom, so his guests are probably still asleep, but he casts a silencing charm anyway to ensure they don’t compromise their safety if they happen to wake up in the middle of this conversation. When the fire is crackling merrily in the grate, he throws in a handful of Floo powder and sticks his head in the tickling green flames.

“Papa,” he calls, and waits. Momentarily his father ambles into view from the direction of the kitchen, carrying a mug of coffee.

“Good morning, my boy,” his father says with a smile that creases the lines around his eyes. “We missed you last night. How are your guests? You haven’t dragged them out of bed this early to fly with you, have you?” He speaks with the experience of a man who spent countless pre-dawn mornings escorting a very young Viktor to and from Quidditch practice. Viktor would feel worse about it, but Papa continued rising early even after Viktor left for Durmstrang and there were no more children in the house. It’s part of who he is, now.

“I won’t be practicing until later today,” Viktor says in answer.

“Oh-ho!” his father chortles. “The great Viktor Krum, postponing his Quidditch training? She must be a very lovely friend indeed.”

“Stop it,” Viktor chides, though he can’t stop the damnable blush that colors his face.

“Well, if you’re not practicing, why are you bothering me this early?” his father asks, with a mock-gruffness that doesn’t fool Viktor in the slightest.

“I need your expertise,” he says.

*

After he’s said his goodbyes to his father, Viktor lifts the spell he had put up. He hadn’t thought his guests had awakened, so he’s a bit surprised to hear a full-blown argument coming from inside the bedroom. He shuffles over to the open doorway.

“…and there’s no need!” Hermione’s saying, shrilly. “Harry, _we’re safe here_. There’s no chance—”

“We can’t let our guard down,” Harry interrupts with a heated look. “If we stop wearing it here, it’s going to be that much worse we leave and we have to start again.”

Hermione makes an impatient noise. “It’s only a week, _if_ that. Please, Harry, put it in my bag and take a break from that horrible thing.”

Feeling very awkward, Viktor knocks. “Sorry to interrupt.”

Hermione jumps a little, whirling to face the door. Her voice is just a little high-pitched as she says, “No—you weren’t—”

“What is it?” Harry asks, calmly.

“I am going out to fly after breakfast. Perhaps you would like to come with me?”

Harry’s expression changes on a dime. “Yes,” he breathes out, looking more excited than Viktor’s ever seen him, but Hermione asks doubtfully,

“Is that safe?”

“Very safe,” Viktor assures her. “We are in very remote area, can only get here by apparition. Only those with secret can apparate in. Wards cover practice field, mountainside, five square kilometers.”

“I’ve not been on a broom for ages,” Harry says, with a longing in his voice that pains Viktor. He’s seen what a gifted flyer Harry is; the idea that he’s been without his broom this entire time feels like a travesty.

“I’ll stay here,” Hermione decides. Viktor had been expecting that answer, so he’s not surprised, but he is a little disappointed. It’s for the best, anyway, he tells himself. He has to get some solid practice in—if she came he’d just spend all his time with her.

Harry moves to leave the small room, but Hermione blocks him with her arm. “Locket,” she says, and turns her hand like she’s waiting for Harry to drop something in it.

He hesitates. “If you’re just going to stuff it in that bag—”

“I won’t,” Hermione cuts in. “But you don’t need it weighing you down out there.”

Harry reaches beneath his shirt and pulls out the locket Viktor had torn off him two nights ago—the one that, despite its icy-cool exterior, had left a shiny, angry burn mark on Harry’s chest that hyssop and dittany have only healed so far. Viktor wouldn’t have put that on again in a hurry.

He passes it to Hermione, who puts it on. Harry’s expression lightens immediately—but maybe that’s just Viktor’s imagination.

*

Viktor and Harry return to the cottage two hours later, dripping sweat. Viktor has always wanted an opportunity to fly with him, after seeing what he was capable of during the First Task, and he wasn’t disappointed by the way Harry tackled the series of training exercises he’d been given by the Vultures seeker coach to complete over break.

“That was brilliant,” Harry says as he reverently wipes down the broom Viktor had lent him. It was old, and had certainly seen better days, but it was also the broom Viktor had flown in the Quidditch World Cup, so even though he’d retired it and bought a newer model last year, he couldn’t get rid of it.

Viktor observes the younger boy carefully. His cheeks are flushed red with cold and wind, and he’s smiling more broadly than Viktor’s ever seen him do before. It strikes him how young Harry is—rich coming from him, only about four years older—but he knows the pressure of expectation and the burden it brings. Even if it was only for a few hours, Viktor feels glad to have lifted some of the weight from Harry’s shoulders.

He hopes improving Harry’s mood will have a positive impact on Hermione, also. He can’t stop thinking about the way she looked last night when she said _we’re too young for this_.

* H *

Hermione’s not so engrossed in _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ that she misses Harry and Viktor’s approach back to the little cottage, but it’s a near thing—she only notices someone is approaching when their shoes begin crunching through the snow on the cobblestone path by the door, and out of sheer habit she startles a little and grabs for her wand before relaxing back into Viktor’s couch.

Viktor and Harry enter, then, filling the room with their presence and underlining just how tiny Viktor’s home is.

“Did you have a nice practice?” she asks, trying not to stare at the way Viktor’s tight, long-sleeved shirt is soaked through in a V of sweat over his chest. But when she looks away, her gaze catches on his face, and the knowing smile there tells her she’s been caught. She can only hope her blush isn’t too obvious.

“Brilliant,” Harry answers, hair even messier than usual. She’s glad to see his posture has shifted, into something more open and light. She’s not thrilled about how long they might have to spend at Viktor’s, but… if it banishes some shadows from Harry’s eyes, she might find a way to embrace it.

Hermione can feel Viktor eyes raking over her, taking in the way she’s curled up with the blanket Viktor’d slept under for the past two nights (it smells like him, she keeps pretending not to notice), and then the book in her hands. Suddenly she wonders if he feels like she’s invading his space—his bed, for now—but it had felt awkward and lonely to read in the bedroom, and the height of the kitchen table had been hurting her back.

“Should have known you would be cozy with book,” Viktor comments, and she blushes again, less sure of why this time. “Come, let me show you both something.”

Hermione follows with interest, Harry trailing less enthusiastically a few paces behind her. Viktor opens a door that she’d previously thought was a closet—his cottage is small, and she’d honestly thought contained only a bedroom, sitting room, kitchen and bathroom—to reveal a cramped but homey-looking space.

“My library,” he says, with an emphasis on the word that lets her know he calls it that in jest. “It is not much, maybe—”

“It’s lovely,” she breathes out, trying to take it all in. Three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line two walls, along with a display case with what looks like Quidditch trophies behind glass. A small wooden writing desk with matching chair, plus a worn but comfortable-looking red velvet armchair completes the room.

He looks pleased. “You are welcome to use it while you are here.”

Hermione squeaks and all but jumps at him, squeezing him tightly. He staggers back just a step, as if he had not been expecting any reaction like that. “Thank you,” she says. “You can’t imagine how…” but her mind is already racing ahead of her, wanting to get inside and see which English volumes he has; perhaps he has something she missed, and even if he doesn’t it’ll be _heavenly_ to curl up in that overstuffed armchair with a book instead of sitting in the tent. She looks up at him, conscious of the fact that she didn’t finish her sentence but not fully aware of what she’d even been saying.

Viktor looks amused rather than annoyed, and releases her from his arms. “Go, I know you are excited to see what is there.”

She bites her lip, but in the end a wide smile breaks out over her face.

*

Harry joins her in the library after his shower, and by then she’s already worked out Viktor’s organizational system. Each shelf is for a different language—English, Bulgarian, and Russian, the latter of which is almost entirely textbooks, giving credence to her theory that Durmstrang is somewhere in Siberia, though it’s possible Russian was chosen as one of the most widely-spoken languages in that part of the world. She runs her fingers over the Cyrillic characters stamped in shiny foils on the spines of the books, wondering what hidden knowledge they contain. It doesn’t escape her that there may very well be useful information about horcruxes in one of them, given Durmstrang’s reputation.

She’s loath to bring it up to Harry now—not with his damp hair curling at the ends and a little bit more of a smile than she’s been used to seeing touching his lips—but at some point they may have to consider telling Viktor more details of what they’re trying to accomplish.

“Anything useful in here?” Harry asks, and the hopeful note in his voice squeezes her heart. She knows he’s as tired as she is of re-treading the same old ground, but the things she’s read in Rita Skeeter’s book this morning are not likely to improve his mood. Perhaps if she could find some good to balance out the bad, she’ll find a way to bring up the chapter and letter that’s gravely disturbed her.

“I haven’t finished cross-referencing his English books with what we’ve brought, but I’m feeling optimistic about our chances,” she says, with a forced note of cheer. “Stay out of my way for a couple minutes, and I’ll have an answer for you.”

Harry wanders over to the display case, which Hermione had only given a cursory glance because she has _priorities_ , and begins inspecting Viktor’s many awards and trophies. Hermione leaves him to it, and actually forgets about his presence until he makes a noise of surprise.

“What?” Hermione asks distractedly, trying to remember if she’d packed _Moste Potent Potions_.

“Not all of these are Quidditch awards,” Harry says, sounding like he can’t believe it. “A fair bit are academic, too.”

Hermione hadn’t thought about it, but that made sense. It truly escapes her how anyone could think Viktor a brainless oaf—the goblet of fire would hardly choose a champion without worth or intelligence. Celebrity wasn’t a criteria for a triwizard champion, yet everyone treated Viktor as if his being chosen was either his due or a result of his being famous.

As if the goblet of fire could be impressed by a Quidditch player. Ludicrous. “I keep telling you there’s more to Viktor than meets the eye,” she says, with a hint of impatience that Harry must be used to hearing from her by now.

“I guess so,” he answers, unaffected. “I never really knew him, you know.” Apparently done with the trophies and medals, Harry pulls open the drawer underneath and gives a low whistle. “There’s a box with your name on it, Hermione.”

That’s finally enough to pull her attention away from the shelves. “Oh?—Harry, don’t _open_ it,” she scolds, but it’s too late.

“Just letters,” Harry says, sounding vaguely disappointed. But then his tone changes and he adds, “Loads, actually. I didn’t realize you wrote to him so much. I thought that all stopped in fifth year, when Umbridge started reading letters.”

Hermione crosses the room to look, and is actually a bit surprised by just how many letters she’s sent Viktor over the years. It always felt like they were so far between, but it’s been years since they started writing each other, and even a letter every few months adds up. “For a couple of months, I suppose. But then I set up a post box in Hogsmeade, like the one I have in London for writing you and Ron in the summer. We slowed a bit, because I could only go on Hogsmeade weekends, but we’ve certainly stayed in touch.”

Harry’s looking at her like a puzzle piece is falling into place. “I… didn’t know.”

“I suppose I just never bothered to tell you,” she says. _Because Ron was insufferable every time Viktor’s name was mentioned, and it just wasn’t worth it,_ she does not say.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “So that time you borrowed Hedwig when we were at Headquarters...”

She blushes, and busies herself with a book. Any book. It doesn’t matter, she just needs an excuse not to look Harry in the eye. “I really was writing him, yes.”

“And he came,” Harry finishes, looking like he’s found the place for a particularly difficult puzzle piece.

Hermione turns even redder as her brain helpfully reminds her that Viktor hadn’t, actually. Not that Harry meant it that way. “He was already on the way, actually.” She drops her voice. “He’s involved with the Order, you know.”

“I thought he must be,” Harry says, “for Dumbledore to have given him the secret to Grimmauld Place. And he basically said as much to me yesterday, but I hadn’t thought to connect the two.” Harry pulls out the chair at the desk and angles it toward her, sitting down. “I made him promise not to tell anyone he’d seen us here.”

Hermione’s eyes fly open. “I hadn’t even thought of that!” she cries, distressed at the glaring oversight.

“You’d just apparated us _literally_ halfway round the world,” Harry says with maddening calm. “And you trust him. I think I’m starting to understand why.”

Hermione makes a noise of agreement, unsure what to say. The moment hangs between them for a second, and then she turns away, grabbing the one book on Viktor’s English shelf that she’s positive they don’t have in the handbag (she hadn’t had the chance to nick it off Molly Weasley’s kitchen shelf). “Fancy a crack at this? I’m still working on Dumbledore’s biography.”

Harry reaches a hand out, taking _The Healer’s Helpmate_ from her with a strange look on his face. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything on how to destroy ho—” He checks himself. “Anything useful in here.”

“Maybe not for _that_ ,” Hermione answers, “but it never hurts to know healing magic. Especially…” she lets her voice trail off.

“Yeah, I s’pose.” Harry pauses for a moment, clearly engaged in some kind of internal struggle. “Hermione, listen… do you… that time in the library at Grimmauld Place, I always assumed it was a one-time thing—”

“It was,” she interrupts.

“Because if it wasn’t, and I ran interference at the wedding—”

“I know.” She conjures up bright grin. “Harry, I’m not upset. Viktor told me what you said, and I know what you were trying to do, and while I can’t say I _appreciate_ it, I know you were doing what you thought was right. Nothing would have happened with us that night anyway. Viktor’s lovely, but he’s… a dream, almost. I thought there was something more real in front of me, and I’d not have done anything to jeopardize it.”

“Thought?”

Mentally, she curses Harry’s penchant for being perceptive exactly at the times it suits her least.

“Thought,” she affirms, injecting a breezy tone into her voice—or trying to, anyway. “And that’s all I’m going to say about that at the moment, Harry Potter, so you’d best let it lie.” She intends to drop the subject, too, until a thought strikes her a few minutes later. “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“If you… warned Viktor off, at the wedding, why would you help me sneak off to talk to him later?”

Harry shrugs. “One of the only things I know about Viktor is his sense of fair play. He didn’t like that I was in the tournament, but he respected it. And, er, we had a conversation once, after the second task.” Harry’s cheeks pinken. “He asked me if you and I were dating. Obviously, I told him no, but… if we had been, he would have stopped pursuing you. I’m sure of it.”

Hermione files that information away for later. Somehow, neither Harry nor Viktor had seen fit to mention that little conversation to her, at the time.

*

Harry tires quickly of healing spells, as expected, but sticks it out with her for longer than she’d expected before giving in.

“Right,” he says finally, standing up from the desk. “It’s a beautiful day, and I don’t want to waste it. I’m going to go practice some defensive spells.”

“You should see if Viktor wants to duel,” Hermione says absently as he drops a kiss to the top of her head and leaves the room. If he says something in response, she doesn’t hear it. It feels like only moments have passed when Viktor comes into the room, bringing with him a blanket and a sandwich, but she catches a glimpse of his watch as he balances the plate on the chair’s arm and realizes it’s been hours.

“Is it already one?” she near-gasps. She hadn’t even been _reading_ , not really, just staring at the pages and brooding over the implications of the letter that had turned her perception of Dumbledore upside-down.

Viktor regards her with laughing eyes. “Some things never change.”

She blushes as she remembers all the library study dates where he’d had to fight for her attention… and all the gentle teasing he’d subjected her to about it later. One of his last letters from sixth year had contained the line _I wish you were here with me, ignoring me for a book_.

Well, she won’t do it now.

“I don’t know about that,” she says, shutting the book and smiling up at him. “Where are you eating?”

He studies her for a moment, as if her question is a test. “Wherever you wish me to.”

“Is Harry inside?”

Viktor shakes his head.

“Living room, please,” she decides, and gathers up both the plate and the blanket he’d brought, pointedly leaving the book behind as she follows him out to the room with the warm fire.

She can’t leave her thoughts behind so easily, though, try as she might. She distractedly arranges and re-arranges multiple blankets over her lap, because she’d been colder than she realized.

“Penny for thoughts,” Viktor says, and she blinks in surprise.

“Where do you keep getting all these idioms from?”

He grins, raising his eyebrows. “A secret,” he tells her. “Do not hide from question. You are far away right now, I can see it in your eyes.”

She chews a bite of her sandwich, not even knowing where to begin. With Dumbledore and how she never imagined him capable of the things Rita Skeeter alleges he’s done? With the tasks he’s set them? With her worry for Harry that colors everything she does?

“Grindlewald, actually,” she says after thinking on it for a bit. “I’m thinking about ‘for the greater good’… what a horrible slogan. How could you possibly justify doing wrong things in the service of good? Doesn’t it make all the achievements meaningless?”

“I have always thought that is not the worst part,” Viktor comments. “Worst part is not that he did bad to achieve good, it is that he believed ‘good’ was something he could decide for everyone.”

Hermione stares at him in disbelief, putting her plate on the table. “So you’re okay with the horrible things he did?” Her heartbeat speeds up. She’d never imagine Viktor capable of this kind of thinking. Is he really, deep down, a fundamentally different person than she’d imagined? Is she totally wrong in thinking she knows him, can trust him?

_Has she put Harry in danger bringing them here?_

Viktor makes an impatient noise. “Do not say my words for me. That is not what I mean.”

“What _do_ you, then?” Hermione cries. She’s distantly aware that she’s gone from zero to sixty in about three seconds, and doesn’t like it, but—more importantly—doesn’t feel like any other reaction is strong enough.

“I mean,” Viktor says calmly, “that there are many instances in which someone might do an immoral thing to produce a moral result. But there are very important considerations, and only a few instances in which it is good and correct to do it. Grindlewald did not meet any of the criteria.”

“What kind of criteria?” Hermione presses, still too anxious to think calmly. “How can you put criteria on something like that?”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “You began an illegal student organization.”

“We didn’t have a choice!”

“There is _always_ a choice,” Viktor says, raising his voice just a little. “You chose to start club, teach students what the professors would not. Skills that were vital to learn. Your choice, Hermione. Why pretend like you had no control? Be proud of your decision. It was the right decision, even if you were breaking rules.”

“I wasn’t trying to _subjugate_ anyone, Viktor.”

“Yes, and that is part of the criteria, see?”

Hermione folds her arms across her chest, sinking back into the couch cushions. “Okay. I’ll bite. What are the criteria?”

“First is - does this truly hurt someone? So that will take care of any attempt to justify murder. Grindlewald killed many people. Your club did not.”

“But in wars, everyone kills,” Hermione points out. But she’s not thinking of everyone. She’s thinking of Harry. She’s thinking of a prophecy that puts a young man—a teenager really—in an impossible situation. The idea that Harry must kill or be killed is a fact that she tries her hardest not to think about.

Some days it’s all she thinks about. Some days the locket—

 _The locket_. Of course.

She unclasps it from around her neck, setting it on the coffee table, and it’s barely out of her hands before she starts to feel more like herself.

“You are correct,” Viktor continues, though he’s eyeing her and the locket oddly. Mentally she wills him not to ask about it, because she could never explain. “So number two - do you harm in the name of an ideal? Or do you harm because there is—what is word—impending danger? Or to say another way… when you harm, is it a person who is a threat to you, or is it a person that is a threat to what you think or want?”

“Okay,” Hermione says, still unconvinced but a little less angry, thank Merlin. Of course Viktor doesn’t condone the things Grindlewald did, or the methods he used. The locket has always harped on her inability to protect Harry, and now it knows Viktor is her blind spot. “Any more?”

“And if yes, it is for an ideal - does that ideal include, as you put it, subjugating people? If your ideal believes some people are better than others, or more special, or need the benefit of your superior protection… you are asshole.”

Hermione huffs a laugh, feeling more or less disarmed, but not totally convinced by Viktor’s arguments. “Okay. Let’s move onto a less dire example, maybe?”

“What are you thinking of?”

“We had a teacher fourth year,” Hermione begins. “In class, he performed the Imperius charm on students to teach us what it felt like to be under it. He Imperiused _children_ , Viktor. In the name of education.”

Viktor is very quiet.

“Where does that fall? Was he wrong to do it, because it’s a crime? Or was he right to do it, for educational purposes? Does the fact that Harry can resist obeying the curse make it okay that a professor repeatedly broke the law and used dark magic on _students_?”

“Potter can… resist the Imperius curse?” Viktor looks absolutely stunned.

“Yes, of course. Can’t anyone at Durmstrang? I thought that’s what they taught you there.”

Viktor shoots her a look. “Do not make the mistake of thinking that because my school taught dark arts, that it embraced them as good and proper.”

“That’s certainly the reputation they have.”

Viktor scoffs, standing. “Yes, and I have reputation as some kind of Lothario, bedding women across all of Europe and leaving only tears and heartbreak in my wake.”

The joke breaks the suffocating tension of the argument, sending Hermione into unexpected giggles. “You must have improved your pickup skills since the triwizard tournament, then,” she says with a smile.

Viktor makes a gesture of dismissal, but the corners of his mouth tug up in quiet pleasure. “They worked well enough for you.”

Hermione stops laughing, gazing up at him with fondness. “Come back, Viktor,” she says, holding out a hand, hoping to entice him back with her cozy pile of blankets and the warmth in her voice. And it works; he takes her hand and allows her to draw him back down to the couch, so she doesn’t let go. “They worked _because_ they were so terrible,” she tells him with all the kindness she can muster, and shakes her head a little. “Didn’t you know that?”

She thinks about Viktor and his giddy entourage of students. Viktor, who could have taken anyone he wished to the Yule Ball with just a question—a _look_ , really—stumbling through an invitation. It’s possible Hermione’s one of very few people who have ever seen Viktor so embarrassed and vulnerable. But that’s why she’d said yes, after all. Nobody would put themselves through something like that for a prank.

For the first time, Hermione consciously realizes that if Viktor had been less horrifically awkward in asking her to the Yule Ball, she might have turned him down. She could have missed out on a magical evening—Ron’s childishness she could have done without, but as the years pass she remembers it less, and the fun of the evening more firmly roots itself in her memory. But more than just one enjoyable dance, she could have lost the opportunity for a friendship that defies language, borders, and the laws of probability.

The idea of her life without Viktor is a bleak one.

Viktor’s scowling, so Hermione leans forward and pulls him into her arms. “And I’m so _glad_ you’re not who your reputation would have you be.”

He gestures to their surroundings. “It could not be more wrong.”

“You can be a ladies man and still live in a cozy little cabin in the woods,” she replies, feeling almost playful. She can’t remember the last time she felt as _light_ as she does right now, almost basking in the memories of their short but terribly sweet courtship.

He makes a small noise of impatience. “Does it look like I plan to ever bring another here to live?”

That warm something grows cold in Hermione’s chest as she absorbs the point he’s making. It makes her view the little main room differently. The small couch. The bedroom with only one nightstand, and no room for a second. The cramped kitchen with its table too small to comfortably fit two, and his tiny ‘library’ with seating only for one. Viktor’s been constantly transfiguring things to accommodate the presence of two other people in the house.

And the most obvious piece of the puzzle: a home that can only be reached by apparition, yet warded against almost everyone.

Hermione draws away from him. “Viktor, why?”

Truthfully, she’s not sure she wants to hear the answer. His eyes meet her for an interminable moment that presses heavy on Hermione’s chest. Then he breaks it, looking away.

“Because of what happened at third task. How am I to go through life, knowing I could be Imperiused at any time? How do I fall in love, take a wife, make a family? At any moment I could be told to hurt them by someone who only wishes to hurt me.” He’s staring directly, intensely, into the fire, as if there are answers to be found there.

Hermione makes a sympathetic noise in her throat, reaching out a hand. It hovers above Viktor’s arm for a moment before she places it down, gently squeezing. He still can’t quite look at her. “Viktor,” she begins, hesitant to overstep a line he’s drawn for her over and over again, but powerless against the desire to _help_ him, “You can’t hide on a mountain forever. You can’t just… not live your life.”

“I don’t hide,” he says, then quickly glances at her and away. “Not… I go to work, I go out with friends, I see family. I even do errands for the Order. But I try to limit how often I am in close contact with people I do not trust… or reasonably trust, at least. It is hard to see how love will fit in there, when any date feels like a risk.”

“But you can’t live your life like this,” she begins to argue, but she falls silent after he places a finger against her lips.

“Do you know what happened in the maze? I could have _killed_ Fleur. If Potter had not come by when he did, I believe I would have. And it felt… good. No. It felt right, and proper. It felt like the only logical thing to do.” His face twists in disgust, and Hermione grabs him by the upper arms to keep him from jumping off the couch and leaving her there. “Someone told me to do it, and I did not even question it.”

“You’re not that person, Viktor,” Hermione says emphatically, shaking him a little. Merlin, why won’t he meet her eyes? “Your character is not determined by what a _Death Eater_ forced you to do under an Imperius, do you hear me? Your character is determined by how you react to that. Don’t let what Moody—Crouch—did to you define you, or he’s won.”

“Easy for you to say,” Viktor scoffs. “You’ve never followed a rule you did not like.”

“That’s not true,” Hermione says, stunned and hurt by the accusation in this conversational leap. “You know me, Viktor. You know how obedient I am, even when it makes me unpopular, and you know how much I struggle with rules that need to be broken.”

It looks as though there are a thousand retorts on Viktor’s tongue, but he just shakes his head. It worries her more than any harsh words could have.

Hermione’s hand comes up to rest on his cheek. “What’s this about?”

“The only thing I ever did for myself was be with you. Other than that, I’ve always obeyed authority—my parents, my coaches, my agent. Karkaroff, most of all, even though I was old enough to know for myself what kind of person he was. But he was my headmaster, and I did not know how to disobey him. Not openly.”

This perception he has of himself surprises her. Never, in a million years, would she have described Viktor as anything less than self-possessed. He’s always seemed like someone who knew exactly what they wanted and how to get it. After all, he has never seemed confused about the way he feels about her. Not the way she is about him.

If Viktor can’t see himself as the capable man she knows he is, it’s up to her to make him.

“I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit. I’ve seen you make some very public decisions, or don’t you remember catching the snitch in the World Cup? Even though it meant your team would lose, you ended the game on your own terms. You’re so much braver than you know,” she says leaning forward to press their foreheads together.

Viktor closes his eyes.

He’s so close, she could lean in just a little more and—at the last second, though, she moves her head just enough that her kiss lands at the corner of his mouth. Her heart flutters madly. Not even a full year ago, she had kissed him, touched him, practically _begged_ him to sleep with her, and now… why can’t she be brave like that anymore?

Viktor exhales quietly, hands gripping her elbows to draw her gently away from him. For the first time she realizes just how much he’s been holding himself back from her since they arrived.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

He looks at her, then, eyes unreadable, but a small smile on his lips. He takes her hand in his, rubbing the back of it with his thumb. Even that sends her heart racing. Finally he clears his throat. “Don’t apologize.”

“But last time—”

He silences her with a finger, pressed gently to her lips. “Later, perhaps. Lunch now.”

She eyes him for a moment, but gives it up—he’s a stubborn one, and her thoughts are too jumbled to be much help right now, and she’s hungry, too, so… lunch it is.

After all, they have the rest of the week to figure this out.

*V*

Dinner is a less formal affair than it had been the previous evening, since the holidays were over; Harry fetches the desk chair from the library and sets it beside the coffee table, leaving the couch for Viktor and Hermione. Hermione’s eyes light up when she sees the bread in the center of the table.

“Viktor, is this—?”

He nods. “Did you forget name already?” he teases, and she flushes a pretty pink.

“What is it?” Harry asks, evening it suspiciously.

“Koledna pitka,” Viktor says. “A Christmas tradition.”

“He told me about it when you went to bed last night, Harry. There’s a coin baked into the dough, and whoever gets the piece with it is supposed to be lucky all year.” Her eyes dart to Viktor and back as she continues, “It’s just a superstition, of course, but it’s sort of lovely anyway, don’t you think?”

Viktor gestures to it. “You should break it in three,” he says to Hermione.

She doesn’t need to be told twice, ripping the loaf along the score lines he’d made in the top with this in mind. Viktor just watches her, enjoying the way she delights in this simple experience. That alone had been well worth the call to his father and the time spent in the kitchen.

But her reaction when Harry finds the coin in his piece, the naked hope on her face… he’d gladly have paid an even higher price for that.

Harry holds the silver coin between thumb and forefinger, staring at it. “Hermione,” he says quietly.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Put the locket in your bag. You were right.”

Hermione beams.

*

Toward the end of dinner, Hermione requests, “Viktor, teach us a Bulgarian idiom, since you’re becoming so adept at British ones.”

He thinks for a minute. “What about proverb instead?”

When Hermione agrees to those terms, he recites a short sentence in Bulgarian before translating: “ _One swallow does not make a spring_. That’s Papa’s favorite.”

“I like it,” Hermione says, with a shy smile, and he wonders if she’s understood what he was trying to tell her.

He doesn’t get the chance to ask, unfortunately. Harry remains with them that evening, comparing notes with Viktor on the triwizard tasks and debating Quidditch. He’s clearly worn out from his day of physical activity, but in a way that makes him softer, more open. His guard is down, Viktor decides eventually, and is proud to have earned some small measure of Harry’s trust.

Hermione mostly stays out of the conversation, instead choosing to watch the two of them with a soft, fond expression Viktor tries to commit to memory, so that it can always be the first thing he sees when he thinks of her.


	4. 27 December 1997

*V*

“Harry,” Hermione begins over breakfast, “I was hoping to ask you a favor.”

“Anything, you know that,” Harry replies, without batting an eye. It’s Viktor’s first glimpse of the ease of their friendship, and suddenly his interaction with Harry on Christmas Day, while Hermione slept off their miraculous apparition, makes a lot more sense.

At the time he’d been taken aback by Harry’s protectiveness. Until that day, he’d only seen their friendship from Hermione’s perspective—the way Harry was her number-one priority, and always would be. But he’d been glad to know there was another person in the world willing to fight to protect Hermione.

“Can you teach Viktor to resist an Imperius?”

Harry coughs, taking a sip of water before saying, “What?”

“You’re the only person either of us knows who can do it,” Hermione continues patiently. “I never managed when Moody tried to teach us in fourth year. _Please_ , Harry.”

Harry’s eyes dart nervously between Viktor and Hermione, as if he’s trying to decide if they’re playing a prank on him. Viktor, for his part, hates to hear Hermione’s entreating tone. She’s practically begging on his behalf, all because he’s not strong enough to know how to do it on his own. For a moment he toys with putting an end to the conversation with a strong refusal, but he _knows_ this is his best chance to learn. Time to swallow his pride and admit his weakness, so he can overcome it.

The pin-drop silence in the kitchen doesn’t faze Hermione in the slightest, and she continues, “Just think of it like another DA meeting. All you’ll be doing is teaching a skill you know to someone who doesn’t know it.”

Harry finally finds his voice. “I’d have to cast the spell on him, Hermione. I’m guessing you don’t mean for me to talk him through the theory. That’s an Unforgivable.”

Hermione tsks, as if she hadn’t been raising the same objections in conversation with Viktor just the night before. “Who will know? It’s not like Viktor will tell anyone. He’s _asking_ you to do it.”

Viktor almost laughs—when she embraces an idea, she embraces it fully.

“Yeah, why is that?” Harry asks, turning on Viktor.

“Does it matter?” Hermione interrupts, before Viktor can say anything.

Harry’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he says, “I—suppose not.” It’s a marvel to Viktor to see Hermione in action; he’s so used to her walking all over him that it’s refreshing to see she doesn’t discriminate in her targets.

His fierce lioness.

“So will you?” she presses.

Harry blinks, looking almost dazed. “Sure. When… when did you want to do it?”

The question’s directed at Viktor, but Hermione answers for him. “This morning.”

Viktor nods. The sooner the better, he supposes, so he doesn’t have time to overthink it.

“I’ll need to borrow your wand, Hermione. Are you going to be watching?” Harry asks, taking a bite of toast. Like he gets bullied into casting Unforgivable curses on people every day.

“No, I’ll be brewing some potions,” Hermione says.

That’s news to Viktor. “And when did you decide that?” he asks, words playful. After they leave his mouth he realizes they’re his first contribution to the conversation.

“Last night,” she tells him matter-of-factly, then nudges him. “Eat up, you’ll need your strength.”

Harry looks like he’s trying not to laugh. Viktor has to smile. “As you say.”

*

Hermione shoos them outside the second they’re done eating, promising to take care of the dishes. She gives each of them a hug and wishes them good luck, but to Viktor she also whispers, “I know you can do it.”

Viktor is less sure, but he’s willing to try. He takes her faith in him and holds onto it as he leads Harry out around to the west side of the house, where the clearing is largest.

“You can have me do whatever silly thing you wish,” Viktor says firmly, “but do not order me to hurt you or Hermione. Even if you mean to stop me before I did anything—I do not want that in my head.”

“Is this about what happened in the maze?” Harry asks, comprehension dawning.

Yesterday he went flying with Harry, and saw the child in him. Today he sees the man, forced to grow up too fast in the name of something bigger than himself. Viktor doesn’t see the point in obfuscating anymore. “Yes. If he could do it to me, anyone could do it to me.”

“That’s not true,” Harry says slowly. “You studied Unforgivables at school, right? You know the caster has to _mean_ it. There aren’t a lot of people out there in the world that could mean it.”

“There are enough,” Viktor tells him. “Did you know I received death threats after the World Cup?”

“Yeah?”

“A lot of them. More than the usual number. Many Bulgarians thought I was trying to snatch glory for myself at any price, at the expense of the team. You saw the horrible things my fans sent to Hermione after that gossip article. Is it so hard to believe the people who hate me would do worse?”

Harry’s quiet for a moment, and Viktor knows he’s thinking of the Daily Prophet articles about him, Harry, from the past few years—Hermione had frequently enclosed them in her letters, marked up angrily in pen. “S’pose not.” He sighs. “Listen, Krum, I’ll give it a go, but I can’t promise I’ll be able to even do it. I don’t actually want to control you.”

“Do you want to help me?”

“Sure.”

“Focus on that. You want to be able to cast the spell because you want to teach me. Not because you wish to harm me.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “Will that—”

“Try it,” Viktor encourages. “The worst that could happen is it does not work.” But he knows it will.

*

“Better!” Harry says encouragingly as he lifts the spell. “I think you nearly had it that time. Your hop was barely a skip.”

Viktor doesn’t feel nearly as enthusiastic as Harry does, in this moment. They’ve been at it for hours, and while Harry seems to think they’ve made great strides, the fact remains that Viktor has not been able to fully resist the curse yet. “If you say so.”

“You know that was loads better than our first attempt.”

Viktor frowns. “But I still obey.”

“But you can tell, now, when you’re under the spell, and you’re starting to fight back,” Harry counters. “That’s miles ahead of most people.”

That’s true, he supposes. He hadn’t even realized something was wrong in the maze, not until it was all over and he’d been confronted with what he’d done… and what he’d nearly done. Harry had placed and lifted the curse a few times without ever ordering Viktor to do anything, helping him identify the mental changes the Imperius caused so that he would be able to remember if he ever felt it again. It had made a world of difference when they’d moved on to Harry telling him to _do_ things. He could hear the voice in the back of his head, now, where before it had been like instinct.

“Hermione is right,” Viktor comments, trying to shove down the frustration he feels. It’s not Harry’s fault he hasn’t been able to get that last piece of the puzzle; it's Viktor's, and his lifetime of obeying authority. “You are a good teacher.”

“She said that?” Harry says, looking like he’s torn between confusion and pleasure.

“Many times,” Viktor confirms. “She is very impressed by how you are with the DA. Ask her.”

Harry’s stunned. “Yeah, I… I will, thanks. D’you want a rest, or should we keep going?”

Viktor checks his watch, shaking his head. “I must go inside, I have an appointment very soon, I am probably late already. Are you coming, or would you like to borrow a broom?”

He needn’t have asked—he can see it in Harry’s face. “I’d rather fly.”

Viktor nods. “Broom shed is unlocked.” He hurries into the house, banishing the snow from his boots instead of taking the time to remove then, and ducks his head into the kitchen. He’s wishing now he had come inside a few minutes earlier instead of going for that last try—but he’d thought he was almost there.

Hermione looks over at him with an expectant smile, no doubt waiting to hear of his great victory over the Imperius curse, but unfortunately he doesn’t have the time to do anything but instruct, “Keep in here and keep quiet. I will explain after. Don’t say a word. I swear to you, you are safe here.”

Hermione gapes at him, but nods. Behind him, he hears the telltale _whoosh_ of the Floo.

“Krum?” Minerva McGonagall asks, and Viktor catches a glimpse of Hermione’s wide eyes as he walks into sight of the fireplace.

“Hello, Professor,” he says, kneeling down by it. “How was your week?”

“Much the same as usual,” she answers crisply. “Did you encounter any difficulties with the assignment?”

“Just one,” he says. “I apologize, Professor, but I was outside and lost track of time. Please excuse me while I retrieve my homework.”

She nods, releasing him, and he steps into the library to grab his assignment from the desk. The last time he’d done this, she’d read him a riot act about respecting her time and coming prepared to their lesson. He wonders if it’s too much to hope that she’ll skip the lecture this time, in the interest of holiday spirit.

Hermione is making frantic gestures of query as he passes by the doorway, looking panicked, but he just shakes his head and mouths _Later_.

*

It’s only when he and McGonagall are exchanging farewells that Viktor remembers something he’d forgotten to do. He thrusts his hand into the fireplace to hand over the scroll he’d fetched earlier, and—feeling foolish for the necessary deception—asks, “And… have you heard from—?”

McGonagall hesitates, then shakes her head. “Still no word, I’m sorry to say.”

He nods, as if it’s the answer he had been expecting.

“Do try not to worry, Krum,” she continues as she hands over a scroll of her own. “We’d have heard if anything happened.”

“No news is good news?” he asks, trying out an idiom she’d taught him a few months ago.

It earns him a rare grin from the dour professor. “Precisely that.”

McGonagall’s gone not one minute from the flames when Hermione appears in the doorway of the sitting room, arms crossed, looking stormy.

“Care to tell me just exactly what happened?” she demands. He can hear, just barely, an undercurrent of fear in her tone. Perhaps Harry hadn’t mentioned he had extracted from Viktor, at wand-point, a promise to keep their presence here a secret.

Viktor stands, brushing off his knees. “That was my bi-weekly English lesson with Professor McGonagall.”

Hermione sniffs. “Your English is excellent.”

“It is,” he rumbles with a grin. “But it makes for a very nice cover, does it not?”

In all his life, Viktor’s never seen a lovelier sight than Hermione Granger when she grasps a difficult concept. Her whole face opens and lightens. “I see.” She nods toward the scroll in his hands. “And your homework assignment?”

“Less homework, more assignment.” He unrolls the parchment and laughs to see the neat script written across the top. _Nothing this week. Enjoy your holidays and keep safe. M.M._ It’s almost enough to make him wonder if McGonagall somehow knew about his unexpected guests—but it’s impossible, of course.

Relaxing some, Hermione leans against the doorframe to the kitchen. It’s a familiar gesture, one that shows her so comfortable in his space as to inspire a strange, bittersweet longing in him. “What exactly is it that you do for the Order?”

He shrugs. “Nothing much. Sometimes I talk to people, get them in contact with other people. When I travel for Quidditch, sometimes I bring objects or messages to… other people.” Floundering for words that are both descriptive and circumspect, he gives her a look. “You most of all should know I cannot say much.”

Hermione grins, looking just a touch sheepish. “You know how nosy I can be.”

“Yes,” Viktor says. “Nosy is not the word I would use, but it is something I like very much about you.” And it’s true: he loves her endless thirst for knowledge. The relentless pursuit of the truth is admirable, inspiring. To reject her lack of tact when it comes to finding out information about people that they may not want to part with, would be an insult to who she is.

His admission earns him a shy but bright smile. “Most people don’t.”

“You have a need to understand the world around you,” Viktor tells her. “The people who call you nosy cannot understand that that need extends to them. If they value your intelligence and despise you for being curious about them, they lack respect for the quality that made you so smart in the first place.”

“I push too much, sometimes,” Hermione admits.

Viktor shrugs. “You do. It is okay for them to have boundaries, and to ask you to respect them. But if they want you to know their boundaries without saying what they are, how is that fair to you?”

“Just like that,” Hermione says thoughtfully, “I think you’ve put into words something I’ve been struggling to articulate my entire life.” She hesitates, then asks, “At the end of the lesson, were you asking McGonagall if she’d heard from us? Or, I suppose… me?”

He raises one eyebrow. “Eavesdropping?”

She doesn’t look at all embarrassed. “I’ll take that as a yes. That was a dangerous thing to do, Viktor. It drew her attention to the idea that you’ve been thinking about me.”

Viktor smiles slightly. If she only knew. So he tells her: “I ask about you every time. It would have been suspicious if I did not today.”

“Every time?” Hermione echoes in disbelief. She takes Viktor’s hand and draws him closer to her. “She doesn’t find that strange?”

“Why would she?”

“Because all she knows about our relationship is that we went to the Yule Ball together. Three years ago. She doesn’t know we’ve kept in touch. Why would you ask, every lesson, if there’s been news of me?”

It doesn’t escape him that she didn’t call it a _friendship_ , as she has in front of Harry. As she has every time before that, except for the time in Order headquarters where she let him show her all the ways he doesn’t think of her as a _friend_.

“You are thinking about this with a logical mind,” he tells her gently, taking the hand he holds and drawing it to his lips. He presses a kiss to the soft skin of her fingertips, eyes never leaving hers. “Believe me when I say, it is not as strange to her as you think.”

“Oh,” she says, sounding breathless.

Harry chooses that moment to burst through the door, cheeks flushed against pale skin. “Bloody freezing ou…” Hermione snatches her hand from Viktor’s grasp, but the damage has been done. Harry’s eyes narrow. “…out there,” he finishes. “Viktor, why did you decide to live on top of a mountain?”

“For privacy,” Viktor says, stepping back from Hermione. He holds up McGonagall’s scroll. “Please excuse me, I must answer this.” Without waiting for a reply from either of them, he retreats to his library.

Stupid.

He thinks about what Harry had said on Christmas Day. _She’s devastated about it… don’t complicate the situation…_

Viktor should have told him the situation has always been complicated, and likely always will be. But that wouldn’t have quelled the hard suspicion in Harry’s gaze just now.

*H*

Hermione bites her lip as Viktor leave the room. She's torn between going after him and staying with Harry, who is watching her with a strange look on his face. She's not blind to the sudden tension that arose when he entered the house, nor her own part in it. But she still doesn't have the words to explain the situation to him, either.

"How did it go?" she asks cheerfully. "Viktor didn't say."

Harry's gaze searches her for a moment more, before he nods. There have been many times in the past when she's been annoyed by Harry's hesitance to get involved in things that aren't directly related to him, but today she's thankful. "He did well. I think he'll be able to fully resist the curse with a bit more practice."

"That's wonderful!" she says, mostly meaning it. The largest part of her heart is glad for the progress, happy for Viktor, relieved to think that he might soon emerge from his self-imposed semi-isolation. But there's just a tiny piece, a little corner, that feels a pang at the idea of him going out and making a life for himself. Finding that wife he'd referenced, making that family...

"He... said something about you." Harry hesitates, and Hermione's pulse quickens a little until he finishes, "He said you told him you thought I was a good teacher. I think his exact words were that I _impress_ you."

She's so relieved. "You do. You know so much, and whenever I see you working with other DA members you're always so self-assured and patient and encouraging. It brings out the best in you, Harry, it really does. If you ever decide an Auror's life isn't for you, you should seriously consider becoming a professor."

Hadn't she ever told him that before?

Harry frowns. "It's just... sometimes you don't treat me like I impress you, Hermione. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're with me, but sometimes I get the feeling like you don't think I'd have made it without you."

His words hurt all the more because they're true. "I'm sorry," she says, cringing a bit. "I know I've been a bit overprotective lately. I'll try to do better, I've just... I've been so worried about keeping you safe."

"Funny," Harry says, "when all I do is worry about keeping _you_ safe." His eyes flick to the closed library door, just for a second, but she catches it. Just as she's opening her mouth to say something, he passes by her, patting her on the shoulder. "Just think about it."

*

Viktor looks up when she enters the library, then back to the book he's reading. "Thought you were Potter, come to glare at me some more," he says, with a petulant tone to his voice that surprises her.

“He’s just being protective.”

“Is he protecting you, or his friend?”

Wounded, she says, “That’s not fair, Viktor.”

“I am not in the mood for _fair_. He believes your heart is broken. Would he still be acting like this if you told him what you told me?”

“I can’t,” Hermione says reluctantly.

“I see.” His words are calm, but for some reason they make her angry.

“No, you don’t. There’s so much of it you don’t understand,” she snaps. “All you saw was a tantrum at the Yule Ball. Not Ron's finest moment, I’ll admit, but I was wasn’t any better later. You weren’t there when he was dating my roommate and I was behaving _so_ badly with jealousy. Harry was. He saw that hurt, and he protected me the best he could." She pulls out the desk chair and sits across from him, trying to order her thoughts. "It’s all just… it’s a narrative. The sidekick gets the girl in the end. We all wanted it to happen, we all thought it was _going_ to happen. Harry’s not ready to let go of that idea, and I’m not going to be the one to make him. I can’t bear to bring him more bad news.”

“So you’ll let him believe I am some kind of scoundrel, to see that you are in pain and take advantage?” Viktor's voice is hoarse and hurt and she hates knowing that no matter what she does, she's going to be upsetting someone she cares about.

“No,” she says quietly. “Of course not. I know I have to talk to him. About… quite a lot, actually. It’s just so exhausting to be the one always bringing him bad news.”

Viktor reaches out for her hand, tangling their fingers together. She resists the urge to throw herself into his arms as he says, "It is natural to want your friend to be happy. But sometimes life does not go that way. If you had to hear bad news, you would want a friend to be the one to tell you, yes? Not find out some other way?"

He's right, of course, and she's grateful for the gentle way in which he delivered the advice. She knows she might have been less delicate about it if their positions had been reversed. Resolving to talk to Harry tomorrow morning about Viktor and Ron and the things she's learned from Dumbledore's biography, she sighs.

"I just wish I had some good news for him. Just once."

*

After dinner, Harry sequesters himself in the library, Marauder's Map in hand. Hermione's not sure what it is he might hope to find on it, since Ginny must certainly be at the Burrow for the holidays, but she decides not to ask. He did her a great favor this morning, and if he wants to stare at the empty halls of Hogwarts as he processes the fact that he cast dozens of Unforgivables today, respecting that is the very least she can do for him.

Still, Hermione worries. She'll always worry.

Viktor comes into the sitting room with two mugs of tea, and hands her one.

"Thanks," she says with a smile. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course." He sits beside her, close enough to touch but not so close that she feels crowded. 

“Yesterday,” she begins, voice hesitant, “we were talking about Durmstrang and got a little distracted. You said something about it not deserving its reputation. I… can you tell me more about that?”

Viktor’s clearly surprised by the conversational choice, but composes himself after a second. “Only that your country seems to view it as some kind of haven for the dark arts. We do not have many English pupils, but all turn out to be children of Death Eaters. They send them to us based on reputation we have in your country, thinking that because we teach the dark arts we must support them. That is why Karkaroff fled to us.”

“But he was your headmaster. Surely that means the board supports the dark arts, too? Or that there were some Voldemort or Grindlewald sympathies there?”

Viktor shrugs. “As to that, I cannot say. But rumor would say that he had convinced them he was reformed, had changed his ways. He convinced your Ministry to free him, did he not? Is it so hard to believe he may have been given a second chance by the Durmstrang board?”

“I suppose not,” Hermione says softly. “Did he deserve it?”

“No,” Viktor answers dourly. “He was a cruel man, and nobody was sorry to see him go. Nobody worth caring about, in any case. But you must understand he does not represent us; the school had never supported what you call the dark arts.”

“So where does this misunderstanding come from?” Hermione asks, puzzled.

“Our philosophy, I believe. The school founders believed that you cannot guard against what you do not understand, and you cannot understand what you do not learn. No magic is good or bad all on its own, so it must all be taught.”

“So the killing curse is not inherently evil?” Hermione asks. She’s trying to keep her voice in the range of curiosity, but a bit of disbelief and outrage leaks in. She can hear it, and so can Viktor, judging by his raised eyebrow.

“If someone was fatally injured, and dying slowly, would it not be a mercy to kill them quickly and without pain?” he challenges. “Would it not be kinder to put them out of misery if they wished?”

The words pierce her. “I—I don’t know. But that’s not what the curse is meant to do.”

“Isn’t it? Do you know who created it? What their intent was? Or do you only know that you have been taught that it is dark magic?”

“There are countless historical examples of it being used for evil—”

“But that does not make it,” Viktor interrupts, “something that is evil in itself.”

“What about the Cruciatus?” Hermione shoots back. “A spell exclusively designed to cause pain. What mercy or goodness can you find in it?”

“Self-defense, perhaps,” Viktor says slowly, as if he knows she’ll not like the answer.

She doesn’t. “Bollocks!” she cries. “There are hundreds of defensive spells. The Cruciatus is an attack. It’s pure evil, and nothing you can say can convince me otherwise.”

Viktor holds up his hands, as if in surrender. “That is up to you. But it’s not… I am only explaining the Durmstrang philosophy. Magic is not good or evil, dark or light, but takes the shape of the person using it. Take fiendfyre as an example. It creates a flame in the shape of a predator, and preys upon anything it touches. It can be used to burn down forests and eat people alive, or it can be used to destroy cursed artifacts and cleanse an area of protective spellwork. But only by understanding it, and learning to control it, can anyone hope to do good with it. Did your school teach you to use fiendfyre?”

“Of course not,” Hermione breathes. She’s not even sure if the curriculum touches on it at all—there’s no known defense against it. The only reason she knows about it at all is from horcrux research. “It’s incredibly dangerous.”

“It can be. But it does not _need_ to be. Sixth year students at Durmstrang learn to make a small flame. They learn how to keep it connected to them, so they can control it. If the fire breaks free from the wand, it becomes uncontrollable. That is where danger lies. But if the flame is kept small, and the caster is strong, it can be made to do as they bid.”

Hermione’s speechless as Viktor’s words sink in.

“Viktor… are you telling me you can control fiendfyre?” Her voice cracks ever-so-slightly.

“To some extent, yes,” he confirms. He doesn’t seem impressed with his ability, like it’s meaningless to him because it’s so commonplace.

“Control it enough to destroy a cursed object?” she presses. Hope begins to bloom inside her, waking emotions that had gone dormant during the long, demoralizing autumn. "Safely?"

She sees, in his expression, the moment Viktor catches that her question isn’t hypothetical. “Yes,” he answers slowly. “I can do that. I have done it before.”

“And—” she hesitates, then continues on, because she would be a fool to waste this opportunity—“ _would_ you? If I asked you to destroy something, but couldn’t tell you precisely what it was, or where I got it, would you do that? For me?”


	5. 28 December 1997

*V*

The morning air is wintry cold as Viktor, Harry and Hermione leave the house. As planned, wandless Harry stays well back, but Hermione follows Viktor out to the very center of his practice field—as far away as they can get from the house while still maintaining a safe distance from the sheer, rocky drop of the side of the mountain. She glances up at him nervously as she places the locket on a plate from the kitchen (they’d figured out last night, while they’d planned this, that it couldn’t be levitated on its own) and sets it down a short distance from them.

Viktor’s freezing without a jacket on, wearing only a jeans and t-shirt, but he knows the heat will be unbearable in a moment. If he was bundled like Hermione, it would be distracting. Constricting. “Are you ready?”

Hermione shudders, and he’s certain it’s only partially from the chill. She’s seemed in turns impressed by, and frightened of, the fact that he’s used fiendfyre before. “If you’re ready, I’m ready,” she says firmly, stepping so that she is partly behind him, as they’d agreed upon.

He does not feel worthy of her confidence. It’s true that he can control and direct fiendfyre under normal circumstances, but Harry and Hermione’s abject refusal to elaborate on the nature of the curse unsettles him some. But Viktor has not gotten to where he is in life by hesitating. Planning, practicing, yes—but hesitation in the moment of truth, never. The moment is now.

Viktor closes his eyes and slows down his breathing, letting his thoughts slowly drift away. When he opens them again, there’s nothing in front of him but the locket and nothing behind him but a wall of strength and control, protecting his home and friends. He takes another deep breath, raises his wand, and breathes out the incantation.

A jet of what feels like pure energy and looks like pure hell emerges from his wand. It takes no form yet as he keeps a tight rein on its progress, but the locket starts vibrating, clattering against the plate, as if it can sense the presence of the flames. Behind him, Hermione levitates the locket and plate up, so that his fire can meet it more easily.

The spell fights against his control, a lion’s mane and head beginning to take shape from the extremity of the flames. Tightening his physical core, Viktor slowly gives the fire room to grow as Hermione directs the locket toward it. But it seems to come against a wall, and he’s startled to understand that the locket is emitting some kind of force that’s pushing _back_. Slowly but surely, he’s losing ground against it. He knows he must allow the flames to grow, but he does not want to; if they get much stronger, he risks not being able to rein them in later.

He edges forward, giving the fire just a little more leash. If this doesn’t work…

Hermione’s non-wand hand comes up to rest between his shoulder blades, grounding him further with her silent show of support. The lion roars once and engulfs the locket. For a moment all is still—

Recoil, like Viktor’s never felt before, shoots up his wand and it’s only reflex that saves them, only the split-second instincts of a seeker that allows him to maintain his hold over the spell. The air fills with a hissing, inhuman screech. The plate is long since destroyed, but locket is open—the force of which must have been what flung the fiendfyre backward. It’s hovering in the air just out of reach of the flames, screaming.

“ _I have seen your heart, and you have been found wanting.”_

Each syllable susurrates through his bones—Viktor can’t tell if the words are out loud or just in his head, not until Hermione’s shocked gasp lets him know the truth of the situation. A grayish smoke erupts from the locket, and he edges a step in front of Hermione, shielding her, before he realizes it’s not spreading closer to them.

“ _I have seen your hopes and your fears, Viktor Krum, and I have measured the content of your character._ ”

Hazy shapes begin to emerge from the smoke, eventually taking the form of the moment he’d caught the snitch at the World Cup. The mixture of cheering and booing. He remembers that moment, remembers it clearly—the way it had felt to know that for better or for worse it was something he could never take back.

“ _Your famous achievements, always overshadowed by the ways in which you have fallen short._ ”

The smoke changes, then—Hermione, tied to the lake floor, floating like a corpse. Shark-Viktor is swimming toward her, but she only gets further and further away. Viktor feels his lungs sieze as he remembers the moment he realized his teeth weren’t going to cut through the ropes. The abject panic he had had to power through. How does the locket know this? How could it _possibly_?

“ _Merely a tool to do the bidding of others_.”

Now the the smoke is just Viktor, with various figures darting around him, whispering in his ears—Karkaroff and Coach Radev of the national team were the largest, but there were others. So many others. A line of them stretching back all through his life.

And then… then the smoke is the maze, and Viktor’s once again confronted with the face of Professor Moody, his raised wand, his calm “Imperio!”

“ _Never seen for your true self._ ”

“Viktor, don’t listen!” Hermione cries, bringing him back to himself. With a steeling of his nerves that feels like the all-or-nothing rush of a Wronski Feint, he all but hurls the fire at the locket, waiting just until he hears the screams abate before he reins it in, hard. For a second he’s sure the flames are about to break free—

No. That isn’t going to happen. He’s Viktor Georghiev Krum, and he _will not allow_ that to happen. With a shout of exertion, he collapses the flames in upon themselves, until they’re no more than a small jet at the tip of his wand. He closes his eyes, breathes in, and whispers the breaking incantation. The lion gives a small roar before it dissipates into nothingness.

Viktor takes another deep breath, and then his knees give out from underneath him.

He drops his wand, and before he even opens his eyes Hermione is already kneeling in front of him, their bodies pressed together, as if she thinks she has to hold him up. And maybe she does. It’s a complicated spell that requires both physical and mental strength, but the items he’d destroyed in lessons and exams were… nothing like that. Nothing at all.

He thinks of the voice, hissing his deepest insecurities, and the whispers of the forest on Christmas Day. They were the same—he was absolutely certain of it. The locket had been in his pocket for only a few hours, but somehow it had seen inside him in that time frame.

“You did it,” Hermione murmurs, in a tone of quiet awe, and her fingers slide through his hair. “Viktor, that was incredible.”

Her forehead rests against his, and only then does Viktor recover enough to bring his hands up, clutching at her waist. He pulls her closer, his breath still coming in harsh gasps, until every inch of them from shoulders to knees is pressed together.

“I’m so proud of you,” Hermione whispers, and kisses him.

It breaks a damn inside of him, years of holding himself back from her, three days of not acknowledging the ways he’d been allowed to touch her the last time that they met, because they clearly weren’t allowable now. All that washes away under her touch, and he loses sight of everything but her lips on his, his hands on her back, her hands on _his_ back, fingertips curling to dig in.

The intensity of the fiendfyre pales in comparison to the burn he feels for her. He wants to drag her down onto the forest floor and melt the snow with their body heat. His hands come up far enough to yank off her woolen winter cap, fisting handfuls of her hair. She whimpers into his mouth—a good one, he’s positive—and—

Movement in the distance grabs his attention, and he breaks away from her. She sways toward him for a split-second before catching herself. Reality floods back as they watch Harry walking back to the house.

“Oh,” Hermione says, sounding embarrassed. “I… forgot he was here.”

“I did too,” Viktor admits. His heart is still racing, and she’s still pressed against him in most places, and—

He still wants her. He leans in again, kissing her—warm, melting kisses that bleed into each other, until finally she pulls away.

“You’re shivering,” she says. Her eyes are so dark with desire that is takes him a second to process her words. They only sink in when she rubs at his upper arms, knit gloves rough against his bare skin, and he realizes all at once how cold he is. The fiendfyre had been hot enough to make him sweat, but kneeling in the snow is making the chill set in. “We should go inside, before you catch your death.”

“One more minute,” he says, kissing her again. He can feel her smile against his lips.

*H*

Harry’s nowhere to be seen when they enter the cabin, so as soon as she convinces Viktor to take a shower and change into warm, dry clothes, she gets her beaded bag and his coat from the closet and opens the door to the bedroom.

Harry's eyes flick from her face to his coat, but she doesn’t have to say anything—he takes it and puts it on, shoving his boots back on and following her outside. He’s silent as they walk down the path toward the woods, even when Hermione threads her arm through his.

Eventually Hermione sighs. “Go on, I know you have something to say.”

“I heard you and Viktor arguing yesterday,” Harry says, after a long moment where the only sound was the snow crunching beneath their boots. “The things you told him, about Ron… are they true?”

“You heard that?” Hermione asks, half surprised and half just trying to buy time—because she hadn’t expected that, not even a little.

“If you hadn’t noticed, it’s a very small cabin. Answer the question.”

“What exactly did you hear?”

Harry doesn’t answer right away. “That… that you’re not as heartbroken as I thought, I guess. Hermione, I swear I didn’t know. Are you even—do you miss him at all?”

“Of _course_ I do,” Hermione says fiercely. “I just don’t love him the way you think I do. Or… the way I used to, I suppose. It’s been a long time coming, but it started even before the wedding. I just wasn’t ready to admit it then.”

Harry laughs quietly, shaking his head. “So… right around the time he could finally admit he liked you.”

“Is that when it happened?” she asks.

“You know it was. Remember the compliments?” Harry nudges her with a smile. “ _Nice streamers, Hermione._ ”

Hermione groans, hiding her blushing face with her free hand. “I hoped nobody had noticed those.” They pass through the treeline, then, and she pulls Harry down to sit beside her on a large boulder—she doesn’t actually want the house to leave their line of sight.

“We all noticed those,” Harry informs her solemnly, looking at her with a straight face. He cracks up at exactly the same moment that she loses her composure and bursts into giggles.

“Well… bless him for the effort, I suppose,” she says after a moment’s reflection. “A year earlier and I would have been putty in his hands.”

“Would have saved us all an uncomfortable year.”

Hermione sobers at that, because he does have a point. She’s felt bad about that for ages, even while it was happening, but they’ve never discussed it so openly before—she’s never had a chance to apologize. “I’m sorry that you were stuck in the middle of that for so long. It really wasn’t fair to you.”

Harry shrugs, then wraps an arm around her and pulls her in for a hug. Hermione rests her head on his shoulder, feeling, just for a moment, like all’s right in the world. “It was a bit awkward sometimes, but it’s not like you were asking me to choose sides. I… I was always waiting for you two to get it together. I wanted it almost as much as you did, I think. I still do, sort of.”

They fall silent at that. Harry’s shoulder is pretty comfortable, and the warmth of his body comforting and familiar. She doesn’t mind the silence, passing the moments thinking of all that came before this one. The friendship she has with Harry and Ron has gone through some of the highest highs and the lowest lows, but it’s always made it through, and even though she’s dreading the return of Ron and the conversation she’ll have to have with him, she’s not afraid the experience will leave them broken.

If Ron could leave them like this, and they both have faith he’ll return, anything’s possible.

Finally Hermione ventures, “It’s a hard idea to let go of.”

Harry makes a noise of agreement. “All I really want is for both of you to be happy. I guess I thought that it would be together. I know—believe me, I _know—_ you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself, but what kind of friend would be if I turned a blind eye to the feelings Viktor obviously has for you?”

So that’s what this has been about. Well, the answer is easy enough.

She squeezes him a bit. “It made you a good friend when you thought I couldn’t return them—it makes you a bad friend if you continue to protect me against something I might want to embrace.”

“He’s a lot older than us.”

“I think sometimes you forget I’m an entire year older than you,” Hermione reminds him gently.

“That’s… fair,” Harry admits, then shakes his head. “Viktor Krum, Hermione? Really?”

“What’s that tone for?”

“ _Viktor’s lovely,_ ” Harry quotes, in a high, breathy voice that doesn’t resemble hers at all, “ _but he’s like a dream. Nothing could ever happen between us. I’m Hermione Granger, and I don’t think famous international Quidditch players could ever fancy me_.”

“First of all, that’s not what I said,” Hermione corrects, trying very hard not to laugh, “and second of all, my voice does not sound like that!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes,” she insists. “Viktor _is_ lovely, but the rest of that was rubbish. I didn’t mean he could never fall for me, just that… there’s no way for us to sustain a relationship, is there? We drift in and out of each other’s lives, and it’s always so _intense_ , but at the end of the day we go back to our real lives. He lives here and I live in England. That’s what I meant, when I said it was like a dream. The idea of us together is a beautiful image with no substance. If I live through this, I want more than a _dream_.”

Silence falls between them as Harry contemplates this. It’s somehow both a comfort and a worry to have finally spoken this fear aloud. It’s been her constant companion since last Christmas, when Viktor swept in and upended everything she thought she ever knew about their relationship, forcing her to realize how very much she likes him—and how impossible the situation is. There is no future for them. There never has been.

“And…what if you don’t?” Harry asks.

“What?” she asks, startled. But she knows what he said, what he meant.

Harry hesitates. “What if… something happens to us. What are you going to regret, Hermione—something you did, or something you didn’t do?”

She knows he’s thinking of Ginny, and her heart breaks for him. She has no idea what to say, and maybe he can sense how overwhelmed she feels by the question, because he doesn’t press her for an answer.

“Can I ask you a question?” Harry asks, and his voice is abrupt enough to tell her he’s begun a new conversational thread.

Hermione hums, patting his leg. “Sure.”

“Why were you—I mean, I heard you—” Harry sighs. “You cried a lot right after Ron left. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but—”

“It’s a small tent,” Hermione echoes wryly.

“Right.” Harry fidgets a little. She’s positive if she looked into his face she’d see deep embarrassment. “If that wasn’t because of him, why were you?”

“It _was_ because of him,” Hermione says, detangling herself from Harry’s embrace and sitting up to face him. “Or more precisely, it was because of you, and the danger he left you in. I’ve been so scared since he left… Harry… I can’t protect you on my own.” She can only say the horrible words because she’s said them before, a few days ago, to Viktor. “It’s part of why I was so reluctant to go to Godric’s Hollow in the first place.”

“You can’t protect me from everything,” Harry says, not looking at her, reminding her once again just how much she’s been trying to shield him lately. Since Ron left, they’ve clung together out of necessity and fear, and it’s made her overprotective to the point where she hasn’t even told him something he vitally needs to know.

Harry continues, “If the prophecy is true… I have to do that on my own.”

Tears spring to her eyes. “ _No_. Harry, we’ll do it together. I’ll stay with you every step of the way.”

“I don’t want you to,” he says, and it stings for a moment before he clarifies, “I can’t ask you to kill with me, and I won’t ask you to die with me. I know that you _would_ , and I think that’s what scares me more than anything.”

“In truth, it scares me too,” she admits. But she doesn’t want to talk about this, and there’s something else she needs to tell him, and… now’s as good a time as any. She opens her beaded bag, summoning _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ from its depths. Harry looks at her curiously as she considers it. Just a book, just some words on a page, but it’s going to change everything for him. “Harry, there’s something you need to read.”

*

Harry breaks away from her when they get closer to the house, heading toward the small broom shed. Hermione lets him go without comment, hoping that a broom ride will go a long way toward clearing his mind.

She finds Viktor in the kitchen with his back to her, washing dishes at the sink, and for a few minutes she just stands in the doorway, watching him. He’s freshly showered, hair still slightly damp in a way that makes her want to run her fingers through it. She lets her eyes linger over the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders; that, too, she wants to reach out and touch.The scene is a quiet, domestic one—it’s so easy to forget, watching him, that there’s a war going on and that she plays a major role in it.

“A picture will last longer,” Viktor says knowingly, not looking at her, and she’s torn between blushing at having been caught looking or smiling at the turn of phrase.

“McGonagall taught you that one too?” she asks, coming into the kitchen because now she’s been caught she may as well. The soft, fond look in his eyes when he turns to her tells her in no uncertain terms that the wall they tore down this morning is not going back up any time soon. She feels relieved, in a way, that there is no wiggle room for her to pretend nothing happened—she’s not sure if she might have tried. She hopes she wouldn’t.

“That one, I think, is universal,” he says, putting a hand on her shoulder and kissing the crown of her head. “Potter looked unhappy. He had words with you, I assume?”

Many words. Showing him _that_ chapter of Rita Skeeter’s book had gone even worse than she’d imagined. She’s expected his anger, but never his hurt. The way his voice had cracked when he was shouting about Dumbledore’s lack of trust in him is something she’ll never forget. She’d had no words to fix the situation or comfort him. Worse still, Harry hadn’t _wanted_ comfort.

But she doesn’t want to allow that mess to intrude on this moment. When they first came here she thought it would be a betrayal of their friends and allies to forget about the war for any amount of time. It’s only now she’s realizing that they were here for a week, no matter what, and to ignore this opportunity for rest would be both foolish and wasteful.

She knows she should ask Viktor about Grindlewald’s symbol, the one Dumbledore had signed his letter with. She needs to know if he ever found out anything more about its possible origins. But… tomorrow. It can wait until tomorrow.

So instead she just asks, “How did you know that?”

He nods his head toward the kitchen window, from which the broom shed is visible. Right.

Hermione bites her lip. “I did talk to him. He’s upset about something I told him related to our... mission, I suppose, for lack of a better word. I can’t say more than that, you know.”

Viktor eyes her like he wants to ask anyway, but only says, “So this morning…?”

“I talked to him about that too, and…” she laughs a little, gesturing helplessly. “Oh, Viktor. I feel silly to have misread the situation as badly as I did—all this time, he’s just been worried I didn’t, _couldn’t_ return your feelings. That you might want something from me I didn’t want to give.”

When she glances at him again, he’s watching her intently. His eyes are dark as he asks, “Do I?”

Her heart jumps into her throat as she considers his question. He’s never come out and said what exactly it is that he wants, but… she thinks she knows anyway. The pull between them is magnetic, irresistible, even though she’s been trying her best to ignore it. Each time she gives into it—in fourth year, last Christmas, this morning—it becomes harder and harder to forget about when he inevitably has to leave.

But she won’t allow Viktor to become her dying regret.

“No, I don’t think so,” she says, proud when her voice doesn’t waver. Summoning all her courage, she rocks up on her tiptoes, resting her hands against his strong chest and pressing a quick, sweet kiss to his lips. It’s the mirror image of their first kiss, and she can tell by his smile that he remembers. It makes it easy for her to confess, “I want… quite a lot, actually.”

Suddenly his large hands are gripping her waist, and before she quite realizes what’s happening he’s hoisted her up to sit on the counter. It neutralizes their height difference, she realizes, as he steps between her knees to kiss her.

“Me too,” he murmurs against her lips, and it sends a thrill through her entire body. It would be so easy to just give into this, but there’s one thing she has to say, first. Reluctantly she breaks away from him, asking,

“Do you remember what you said to me last year?”

Viktor gives her a white-hot look that brings color racing to her cheeks. “I said many things.” His hands are resting on her waist, still, thumbs rubbing circles against her stomach in a way that’s both distracting and wonderful.

“That you could make me no promises,” she says, voice hushed, as she searches his face. It doesn’t change, so she feels brave enough to continue, “and now I need to give you the same warning. I can’t say what will happen after Harry and I leave. I can’t—” she swallows, hard, “I can’t even promise you I’ll live through this.”

She doesn’t realize she’s closed her eyes until Viktor’s hands come up to cradle her face. When she opens them, his expression is so tender it makes her heart ache. This is going to hurt him as much as it hurts her. Maybe even more.

“I do not want the promise you can’t give, mila. I want the one that you _can_.”

“What’s that?” she asks, breathlessly.

“You tell me,” he says. She wishes he wasn’t so accommodating, wishes he would demand something of her, tell her exactly how it is that he desires her. She thinks she knows, but hearing the words would make it easier for her to say her own.

“When does your friend return?”

If Viktor’s thrown by this sudden question, he doesn’t show it. “Wednesday. New Year’s Eve.”

Just long enough for her to completely lose her heart, she knows, and not enough time together to make it worth the pain.

Still, it might be all they ever have. “Then until Wednesday, you have me. All of me,” she promises, and it’s the last word either of them says for a while.

*

Harry doesn’t return until well past lunch, and tersely refuses Viktor’s offer of food before taking a shower and retreating back to the bedroom. When he doesn’t come out for dinner, either, Hermione makes him a plate.

The sight that greets her when she enters the bedroom brings her a fresh wave of worry. He’s sitting huddled under the blankets, book spread open on his lap, but she can tell he’s not reading it. Not really. He looks exhausted in every sense of the word. All she wants to do is find a time-turner and go back to before she and Harry went to Bathilda’s house, so she can destroy the book before they ever found it.

But that won’t help them. Won't change the truth.

Wordlessly, she leaves the plate on the bedside table and goes to leave.

“Hermione.” Harry’s voice stops her, and she turns around, not sure what to expect. “Thanks. I’m not… angry with you.”

“I know that, Harry,” she says, trying to conjure up a bright smile, knowing it falls flat.

“I just need a little time. To… process, I guess.”

She takes a couple steps toward him. His body language is too closed-off for a hug, so she smoothes down his hair and drops a kiss there. She’d had days to work through how she felt about young Dumbledore’s actions, and she hadn’t known him nearly as well; Harry surely deserved at least a day. “We have time. Let me know when you’re ready to talk about it.”


End file.
